Welcome Back.

Funny, it's been almost a year since my last post.

And I don't really have anything important to say, just to save you the time searching, but it's almost midnight on Sunday night and I'm sitting here, listening to "Last Christmas", by Wham!, and have nothing better to do. So I'm writing.


I was a little disappointed in myself, I have to admit, when I read the little caption below my blog title that I'm sure I once thought was witty and realized that I used the word "smally". I keep telling myself it must have been a typo. I just can't figure out what I really meant.


...Probably smally.


I'm eager to be done with high school. I feel like I need a new start. Although, I suppose, if I really wanted a new start, I shouldn't have taken classes at LBCC this year. Because now I'm just used to it. And I've realized that it sucks just about as much as high school. The only upside is that you don't have to do your homework to get a good grade. I'm a fan of that. I'm a little disappointed that the classes aren't any harder, though. Actually, I'd argue that they're easier. After four years of advanced, college-prep classes at South, my classes at LB are a little anticlimatic. For example: I took my first mid-term last week. History of Western Civilization. Fifty questions. I finished in ten minutes. It was probably the easiest thing I've ever done in my life.

I bet the whole college thing would be more enjoyable, though, if I actually knew what I wanted to do with my life. "Oh, Chelsea," they say, "most people your age don't know what they want to do with their lives." Most people have an idea, though. If I even had an idea, that would be convenient.

I have no idea. Not one.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I know what I wanted to be, until last year. I wanted to be a teacher. Since probably third grade, I've wanted to be a teacher. But I changed my mind last year. I'm too much of a pushover. And, by the time I'd be old enough to be a teacher, class sizes will be about fifty, and I just don't want to deal with that every day.

And I've wanted to write since I could form words, basically. But the only semi-steady writing out there is journalism. And I really am just not feeling that. I want to write a novel. Several novels. But that's kind of a hit-or-miss career choice. It's the artsy, nerdy version of those boys who say they want to play for the NFL. I either get lucky and write a winner like Miss Rowling did, or I end up a "struggling artist" forever. No, thanks.

I saw a quote once that said "There is no greater agony than bearing an unwritten story inside you."

It's pretty much the most truthful thing I've ever seen. Too bad getting the story out is a lot easier said than done, hmm?


What I think I'd really love, though, would make me no money at all. And by "no money at all", I don't mean that I simply wouldn't get to live a life of luxury. I mean that I would put way more money into it than I would ever, ever get out of it, because I would not get any money out of it. So, unless God decides it's a super idea and hands me a winning lottery ticket, that's out of the question.

Bummer.