January 10, 2006
I got to page forty-three of another story with a main character by the name of Alphonse. I . . . what can I say? I still don’t know what to do with this world around me. I have a relatively boring job, like most people. No more creepy old men, no more hoagies. But at least the creepy old men were more interesting than the old ladies I work with. Old men don’t have lengthy conversations about vacuums. That’s what really counts.
I’ve been considering college, but only due to the fact that I am bored where I am and sometimes see myself as a meaningless lump that takes part in the following:
Eat, sleep, write, work, eat, sleep, write, work, eat, sleep, write, work, eat, sleep, socialize, work, etc.
Maybe I should be a criminologist. Only thing is, I have a strong suspicion that it would make me miserable. What kind of a life is that? It would be interesting, sure, but would I be happy?
I think I want to be a mechanic.
How much time do I have left to decide?