In 2004, I received a Bachelor of Arts degree in journalism. Hooray. A college education.
Three years later I've come to the conclusion that I should have attended college for a different profession.
I'll be fair and admit I've fallen upon this epiphany in the midst of two horrendous weeks at work, which have made me not only wish I had become a marine biologist or perhaps a garbage (wo)man, but have also made me want to bury my head in a pile of live, hissing cockroaches. But it's an epiphany nonetheless.
I love to write. I do. Hence this blog, which is updated 14,967 times per day. If I could just spew forth words (and also say things such as, "spew forth words") on a blog every day, and still pay my bills and feed The Cats, I'd do it. But when I was making the ever-important decision that is, "What do I want to be when I grow up?" I had two, maybe three, options when it came to writing: A journalist! A novelist! Or perhaps a cat lady. Who kept a diary.
When I realized raising a gaggle (?) of kittens wouldn't necessarily put me high on the list of Who's Who in America, I pondered option No. 2. A novelist. How novel. After writing a short story at the age of 11 about an antique cat figurine that killed people, I realized that dream may need to be retooled a bit.
I know! I'll be a JOURNALIST! Wheee! Nevermind that eight out of 10 times I disagree with the media. Ignore that I've never wished to become jaded, as are 14 out of 15 reporters. Forget that I don't even like to talk to strangers. But what else does one do when all one likes to do is write?
It hit me yesterday, as I chewed the remaining bites of a sub-par lunch that I left the office to eat because I needed to escape the madness before I considered speaking in tongues and smashing windows. I don't like what I do. I should have gone to school for a different profession, and saved my love of writing for extracurricular blogging. And perhaps writing dirty, yet well-written, notes on bathroom stalls. And daily emails to Mom.
I feel I am too young to already commiserate in a disdain for my profession at the tender age of 24 (years and 353 days!).
But I suppose until someone (The Fiance, cough) considers allowing me to raise cats for a living, or the demand for poorly-written jargon about killer heirlooms that meow skyrockets, I shall continue to commiserate.
This is me, commiserating.