I am currently struggling with what I believe to be the most terrifying of crises. We all go through it at some point in our lives. Some people never figure it out. I am worried I might be one of those people. But I have to figure out something soon. I have had enough of meaningless odd-jobs.

The question can crumble mountains and destroy empires. What in the hell do I want to do with my life? Or, what in the hell should I do with my life?

I am headed in a positive direction, at least. I took the first step; nearly five years after graduating high school, I am in college and just about to finish up my first semester. But I also did a bad, bad thing. Besides taking out a personal loan that I will have to pay back in double after I graduate. That could not be avoided, thanks to the bogus financial aid system. But I kinda chose a major for the wrong reasons. The wrong reasons also being "mature, grown-up" reasons in that they don't involve anything to do with following your dreams, shooting for stars and skipping down roads made of magical rainbows.

I am enrolled as a Nursing student simply because I am guaranteed a job at the end of it. No mess, no fuss, I just get shoved into whatever hospital spots me first and away I go into the world of financial stability. The whole thing just sounds really nice. However, as I get further in towards the actual Nursing part of my education, I am beginning to realize a mere interest in medicine will probably not prevent me from killing every patient I come into contact with. I am horrible with even the simplest of math equations (why I didn't go for pharmacology), and I'm not at all good with people. In admitting this, I admit that I lack most of the basic qualities of a good nurse. But I'm guaranteed a job. No matter how much I suck. In a world full of disappointment and broken dreams, that shiny little guarantee means a lot to me. But as great as it all looks to be, my heart refuses to get into it.

My first love is writing, but even my English professor agrees that the life of an English major is pretty rough after college. I've seen plenty of English majors go on to continue working the same jobs they kept during school, and that has grown to become one of my worst fears as a college student. I don't want to get myself into debt for a useless piece of paper that will get me nowhere. It doesn't help that most of my other interests are rooted in the arts, and therefore I consider each of them to be just as silly a dream to chase. As I fall deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit that is adulthood, I have developed that grown-up distaste for dream-chasing. Maybe it really is true that no one can make a living doing what they love. But then I look at the people who contradict that belief. They are in the minority, but there are people who have succeeded and are doing what I would love to do. Do I dare take that risk myself? As I think about it more, I want to be crazy and say yes, I wish to throw my life into the betting pool!

I can't ever write much of anything these days, though, and that is a problem. I have a vast bounty of ideas stuck in my head, but they're just that - stuck. No matter how many times I attempt to write it out, I can't get it to quite match what I think they should be. Perhaps I should stop worrying about perfection so damn much and just get it out there. I guess that's what I'm doing now. Being forced to write things for a class really does help things along, though.

In other news, a few weeks ago, I lost my (merely alright, but well-paying) job when I did not show up for work the day after an extremely fun (not to mention extremely drunken) session of Brawl with a good friend. Call me crazy, but I don't really miss it, even if the loss of income hit me pretty hard. If I had it to do all over again, I'd do it the same way. No worries though, next week I start a cruddy overnight stocking job, but the change is welcome, and my buddy insomnia couldn't have picked a better time to come back for a visit. Also, I have nowhere to live over June and July, and I have yet to really begin to start worrying. The bridge will be crossed once it is in sight.

It's been about a month now since Vern left for Marine Corps boot camp. There are no hard feelings, no anger, nothing like that. It's what he decided he wanted to do, and I'm behind him all the way.. but there's only so much happiness one can experience, left behind with the responsibilities and bills of two persons. After the first week, I had to make myself pick up around the house; it'd been left exactly as it was before he'd gone, and I grew tired of glancing down at his dirty clothes on the bedroom floor and bursting into tears. It's a very hard and weird adjustment to make, to live with someone for a year and a half and then have them suddenly gone, maybe forever. I see human-like shapes in the dark while I try to sleep that walk across the room and float above me before breaking up into tiny particles of dim light. I keep thinking I hear the front door open, as if he is just getting home, but then I wake up completely and remember what's going on. I've taken up smoking just to sit out on the porch late at night and watch the smoke curl, like he used to do.

The fact that he broke up with me has run through my mind so much that it doesn't really hurt so much as it confuses me. As the weeks go on, I get more and more used to being alone again. But, I'm still in love and frankly, I'm pretty sure it won't stop, as much as I want it to; this is the man I honestly thought was going to marry me. It's true that we moved way too fast, and that I depended and clung on him a little too much. I guess what I'm really wanting is assurance that there is a chance for a second try.. he has expressed interest in other girls, however, and even talked to them while we were still dating. That part of it makes me a little miffed, but still, I can't say I don't blame the guy, I did get pretty annoying at times, and living together was just too much pressure. I'm just hoping being away for so long will make him reconsider things.. or maybe after he sees how strong being alone is forcing me to become.

It's really not all that bad, besides the feelings and emotions and money shortages. I made myself get my shit together and get back into school. Hopefully by this time next month, I will be living off school loans and writing essays like I should have done four years ago. In the meantime, I've been doing billing for several doctors and hospitals; the gig's what got me extremely interested in medicine and made me decide to change my major to nursing. That, and, I have to admit, Scrubs (though I realize television and the real world are not the same thing). And I have a sweet little duck to share my food and bed with. That's more than a lot of people can say.

I have these highly vivid dreams where all of my teeth start to fall out of my mouth. They've occurred every so often for years and years, causing me to wake up in disgust and fear, cautiously pushing tongue to teeth just to be sure it was only a dream.

The dream shook me up so much the first few times, I was curious enough to search around for theories of what it could symbolize. Anxiety towards appearance, fear of embarrassment, sense of powerlessness, and a few more ridiculous theories. I declared the research a waste of time, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that the dreams were trying to tell me something. Probably to just take better care of my teeth.

And so a few nights ago, in drunken slumber, each tooth I poked at jiggled and came out into my hand. After nearly all of the upper row had been pushed out, I started to think to myself, "Oh man, I don't think I can afford false teeth. What am I going to do?". This was the most realistic one yet, as I've never been able to think in a dream before (that I can recall).

The first thing I did was get up and brush, then I went back to bed and lay awake for a long time, thinking about it. Then I remembered one of those ridiculous theories I had read all those years ago.

"A scriptural interpretation for bad or falling teeth indicate that you are putting your faith, trust, and beliefs in what man thinks rather than in the word of God".

Vern and his family are very religious people. They slather God generously onto everything they say and do. Now I, the girl whose first impression of the Bible as a child was that of just another fairy tale book, am caught in the middle of it all. And I'm struggling with the notion that, after seeing the influence of religion on these peoples' lives, I want to believe it myself. It's not that easy, of course, as I'm held back by my inhibitions on the subject of Christianity. When I go to church, I can't help but feel foolish just for being there. When we pray before dinner, I can't focus on the words being said. When I go to pray before I sleep, I feel silly having to ask for forgiveness for premarital sex and all the times I had said 'goddamnit' that day. I don't see me making any progress any time soon, and it's pretty frustrating.

There are several Bible passages about God speaking to people using dreams. There are also many Bible passages that speak of smashing the teeth of the enemy, as teeth were always spoken of as instruments of destruction and hate (e.g., the repeated 'gnashing of teeth' line). These dreams.. could God really be using them to show His presence to me, to help push me in His direction? Or, is it just my mind mashing religious symbols into dreams because I've actually had a subconscious desire to know God all along?

Although I want to believe that it's God trying to come into contact with me for the first time, the theory I still believe in most is that the dream is just me just trying to make me start flossing.

Another day, another move. I am now in Alabama. It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm glad to be away from the beach, the tourists, and all that goes with them. Never before have I realized how much I honestly hate people. I was constantly surrounded by samplings of every state (and Canada), and each one irritated me more than the last. Then there was the fact that there was nothing static, nothing stayed. It was a beautiful, horrible place.

Millbrook is a town on the verge of a boom. Small, but has enough shit around so you don't have to drive twenty minutes just to find civilization. Vern is working with his father, repairing pallets all day. He comes home bearing dirt, sweat, new scars and sunburn; he is this place personified - beard, trucker hat and all, and I've not seen him happier since we've known each other. I, on the other hand, am still looking for work, as I have decided to run as far away from Target Corporation as I possibly can (more on that another day). This wasn't my first choice of where to live, but regardless of how out of place I may feel with my proper accent and cleanliness, I am feeling very much at home myself.

Yesterday, Vern took me through the pallet yard, showing me his work. It was there that we stumbled upon a wandering baby duck. With no duck families living nearby, the duckling had to have been carried away from his home inside one of the thousands of wooden pallets. He could be no more than a week old.


It took a bit of a chase, but we got him into the house and out of harm's way. Man and duck quickly bonded, and after some extensive research on the ways of the majestic baby Mallard, I felt comfortable enough to agree upon keeping the little guy and raising him as our own. Vern wants to name him Duck Norris or Mallard Fillmore. My love of pun names overpowers any other feelings and keeps me from telling him no.

For lack of a better closing, ( let's just end this with more duck! )

Oh hello, I'm still alive, but content; happiness is murder on my writing career.

I've never felt more alone in all my life.

Imaginary friends aren't enough.

The sign in front of a nearby church has read,

WE ARE TOO BLESSED
TO BE DEPRESSED
for a while now.

I finally gave in, hung out the window of my vehicle and lanced it with a baseball bat.

Although our breaths were visible, our hands were warm and still a bit moist. When we shook, I wrinkled my nose a bit. He emitted a small chuckle. He was a lot sweatier than I was.

"I know you're from Winston. I've lived around there for a good while now. Out where all the chicken farms are." I laughed nervously and handed him my ticket. He wrote his name on it in Sharpie.

"It's been a real long time but I remember all that so well. I've lived all over North Carolina. I hate chickens." He laughed again and handed me back the ticket. I stuck it in my pocket hastily which caused his name to smear a little bit.

"You were awesome. So were the other guys, could you tell them that? Thanks for all that you do, man. Come down south more often."

He soon got into his white van, and drove by me as I walked back to my car. I smiled and waved, and he did the same.

A group of young teenage girls all wearing shirts with lyrics painted onto them were headed down to the spot where we had just come from, and they saw the exchange of waves between me and the man in the van. They stopped in their tracks and began to stammer loudly; "Oh my god! Was that him? That was him! Oh god! We GOTTA make him stop!"

Watching those girls try to catch up with a moving vehicle, running in skirts and heels and flailing their arms about until the van disappeared from sight, perhaps made my night more than meeting Mr. Folds.

Teenagerdom! I wash my hands clean of you!

I have been in my twenties mentally for years now* and I never liked you anyway!

Just one more important birthday to go before they are no longer joyous occassions! Wahoo!

* my body just needs to start catching up, damn it!