Happiness is a list of bullet points

I have every topic in the world to talk about. I could talk about how happy I've been lately. I could talk about how I've been jogging and cutting out smoking and getting good grades and going to class and fleshing out a plan for after college and all the other things that have been peachy lately but...

...I'm also feeling downright uninspired. For all good that's come to me I feel completely incapable of expressing it in words. I've gone through three completely separate drafts for Thresher columns and toiled over two different works of fiction in my spare time, with each literary endeavor failing to meet whatever strange expectations I've come to place upon myself.

Writing is funny like that.

I know I have a lot of things to say. But every little caustic thought is trapped up in my noggin, where I don't have to worry about burning anyone else. You know me-- I like spilling my guts. I was raised to believe it's therapeutic but, then again, I was also raised Protestant.

Life doesn't need to get easier. I can handle this. I can handle everything and I am happy, I'm not just saying that. But I do need something. I need reassurance. I need to know that all this hard work, all this electrical engineering, and all my life's current endeavors are going to lead me to a happy place. That I'm not wasting my time. It doesn't have to be the place I expect now and it doesn't have to be soon.

I sure do have some weird expectations.