The assignment is: we have to write a 10-page personal essay on a dumb topic. If you were to ask me, I'd say it was the dumbest possible topic. But that's only if you ask me, of course.

I'm not fond of writing personal essays, regardless of the topic. I understand what makes them good; I am able to write them, and I have written them in the past. But I really don't *like* writing a personal essay.

What I love, and love to write, is fiction—but with some otherworld version of myself written into the story. I'm much better at getting a point across in fiction than I am in nonfiction. I think there are some truths that are better expressed in "fiction" than in nonfiction—especially my peculiar brand of fiction.

In fact I'd go so far as to say "Give me fiction, or give me death."

This topic could easily be put into a fictional story that fulfills all of the assignment's requirements, except one: "Write a personal essay…"

I talked to the prof. about an exception. I thought it would be no problem—I consider myself a good writer, even if you can't tell it here. And, of course, he doesn't see it my way.

Dammit, if you know what I mean.

But life also goes on.

I was supposed to take a test today, out of schedule, but the prof. never showed up. So, I guess that was fine. I'm confused now, and I'll probably have to study again before I really take it. Whenever that may be.

What kind of professor gives tests on Tuesdays? I can understand Monday, or Friday, possibly Wednesday in dire circumstances—but not this Tuesday crap. Especially not in a 400-level math class that meets at 8:00. Come on, man.

And it seems that whenever I have a test the next morning, I can't sleep that night. Like … tonight, for example. My stupid body is out to get me. Along with most of the rest of the universe.

Right. Back to bed, but not back to sleep.

Woo hoo. The muses certainly must like me today. In a fit of acute productiveness, I completed two stories I've been working on for the last several months. It's good to get those on paper. Plus they're not half-bad. It's a damn good feeling.

Then I got a headache.

Then I talked to Avril, for the first time in what seems like years and years. I used to be so close to her. I felt I could tell her anything. Nothing was forced; talking was just easy. But since those summers, we've just moved apart. It's very sad. I told her so. Her response was "Yes, I miss it, too"—which just affirmed that it was gone. After I hung up I sat on the couch and stared at the wall. The whole thing made me very emotional. If I wanted to cry, I very easily could.

It's like someone else has lived my entire life up to this point, and I've only now taken over.

Maybe I'll put some Radiohead on. Get quietly drunk. Alone. At four-something in the morning. Maybe I'll do all of this sitting in the bathtub with a razor in my hand, just to scare my roommates. Ha ha ha wouldn't that be so much fun OH GOD MY HEAD.

It took me a long time to see her as I see her now. We would go on picnics, and she would point out to me the ubiquitous ants that had somehow sneaked into the basket. On those walks in the woods, I sometimes pretended to see the birds high in the trees, angry and ashamed that I never could. She would talk, and I would hear but not listen.

I never noticed the soft forest ground cover on bare feet, until she took off my shoes before we entered the woods. It was slightly spongy, holding the outline of our feet for only a few seconds after we had lifted them. The cold water came as a shock to me as we slow-stepped through the knee-high stream; the mud on the bottom squishing through our toes reminded her of a tube of toothpaste, but just made me cringe.

A sudden burst of movement left me kneeling in the water, soaked. She collapsed in laughter. Walking back to the car across the hot pavement of the parking lot, I saw her face, in profile, catch the sun. At that moment I felt an unexpected urge to grab her by the hand, run back among the pine trees, and lay under one, with her, forever. Somehow I knew she felt the same.

I woke up two minutes ago and thought, 'Holy crap, is this really my life?'

I could be getting married soon, and I feel way too freakin' young for that. I love her beyond words—that's not the problem, but I'm not sure if I'm mature enough to make a commitment so complete and final. Plus I'm unsure about what I want to do with my life. I've changed (i.e. completely reversed) my major twice in the course of my college career, and I've changed my mind about careers four times. Uncertainty. I don't want to be dropped into a world that won't notice me.

Tomorrow scares me. That is the truth.

Oh! Oh oh! I have a terrific idea! I think that I'll spill some grape juice on my $40 keyboard! Sounds great, right? But wait! There's more! I think I'll spill it on my birth certificate, too! Oh wow, this is the most amazing thing I've ever thought of! I'll get right on it!

damn gravity.

I saw "Requiem For A Dream" in a theater with some friends when it came out, and I left in a suicidal daze. I just watched it again, fully prepared for its effects. And holy wow, that's a good film. It's honest. It shows people at their worst. It's terrible/terrific commentary. Plus it fit my mood.

For the nth time in my life, I've seriously considered dropping out of school and becoming a farmer. Or a poet. Even a bum. I'm sick of the whole college scene. I'm sick of all the cocky freshmen and their cell phones and their delusions of grandeur. I'm sick of classes that don't appear relevant to me. Jeepers. Get me out.

A poet. Yes. Sounds nice. They get paid six figures, right?