I’ve been inspired to write lately, for no reason in particular. This is a good thing, because, as someone who considers himself a writer, I haven’t written in months. Unless you count my blog entries on net neutrality and electronic waste for computer science class. Or my illuminating economics papers on the minimum wage and pot. These are two separate papers. Not an autobiography.
Such is the life of an undergraduate. My days are spent in the classroom and at work, my nights in front of a monitor not blinking for hours at a time. This would be enjoyable were I to be surfing Web sites other than www.shit_anotheressayaskingmetoeschewcreativity.com.)
Soon this life will end. I graduate in May.
Glad the job market is good. I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels to be graduating from college at such an exciting and prosperous time. I anticipate so many job offers I should be able to share with friends. Especially with my degree. God, it’s useful. Education and English — without the teaching certification.
I made dean’s list this past semester. Being that I work in the office that mails the letters from our esteemed dean, I imagine mine should be arriving some time in 2014. By then, hopefully, I will be employed.
The newspaper today said Philadelphia’s unemployment rate exceeds that of the national average. Bah! Who trusts newspapers anyway? So many are moving to an online-only presence, so why not start there? Philadelphia, according to www.damnweare_soeffinscrewed.uhoh.org, is actually well below the national unemployment rate of Myanmar. Good to know. I could use a vacation.
My last real trip was to Orlando. I was 14 and with my parents. We stayed in a giant hotel and I met a girl with large breasts, both of which I followed around the swimming pool for seven days. I think we were in Disney World, and I might have went on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride a few times.
I hate Johnny Depp movies — transitions, people! — minus Donnie Brasco, of course. But that’s a Pacino film. And I’m rambling. Which is an illustration of my lack of writing in recent months. A good writer rambles coherently. I’m drunk with adjectives, spitting sentences like a bad rapper hoping to rhyme “hungry.”
The good writer knows that’s just not possible.