Quite recently I decided I want (a car, I want a car, yeah) to be an essayist. I would thoroughly enjoy my whole career being devoted to writing orderly but still brilliantly chaotic rants about various subjects. I do this type of thing all the time as it is.
The practicality of this profession is questionable. I’m no great scholar, no ingenious thinker. My writing skills could use improvement. My life experience and knowledge could fit into a Tupperware container, but one of those crappy ones with a lid that won’t say on right and lets the contents spill out whenever it is moved. My, how I love figurative language. What was that, metonymy? I don’t remember. I will end this pointless tangent with a period.
The O so optimistic educators love to tell you that you can do anything you want to do. I’m sure a first grader wouldn’t realize that being an Astronaut requires math that would make their tiny Jell-O brains ooze out of their ears, and that being a ballerina requires that you weigh seven pounds and be at the mercy of any gust of wind or predator that may come your way, (unless, of course, you high-kick them in the shins) or that being an author would require significant reading of other works and, yes, actual writing. These dang kids.
Then again, I was one of those dang kids, and I should have had my delusions of grandeur before life started to be just a big, crappy place that smells of old cheese and failure. But I never had any specific career goals or ideas. I never thought time would possibly bring me to where I am now. “This is a strange sort of place, isn’t it? Do you live here?” –Gilderoy Lockhart, git, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.
Instead of going off about how I like colloquialisms, I’ll stay on the subjects. Which is...right. The specific career I’ve landed on is essayist, but it is a strange and seemingly unattainable profession that requires more education than I am approved to receive or that I am willing to put in. I could start on my religious and personality issues, but we all know about them, don’t we? Well, I don’t want to talk about them either way.
These pretzels are making me thirsty.
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