Lidenskap

Lively diction. Lovely music. My delightful dog, Zoey. Taking sunny naps all snuggled up. Swinging close to lofty branches. Definitely not taking photos of meself, yuck. To some unknown extent writing. I used to enjoy reading, but school stole it from me. Attempting artistic endeavors. Kindred to many things in my life, I cannot simply have one passion. I crave more than one fixation. But not in a druggie way, just in the normal way of someone who is just a smidgen more random than the doctor prescribed. I’m all over the place! I’m whimsical. Wandering. Eccentric. I don’t know. I’m just not the one to put on airs. I am bizarre, but that’s who I am! I wish I could say, “Mr. Professor Benton, sir, my passion is English or writing, my one true love is the enthusiasm contained in writing one frank yet enthralling sentence!!” But it’s not. But it could be. I don’t know. I can barely write a facebook status without consulting thesaurus.com; I just love words. I love exploring words and dusting off forgotten synonyms to those overused cliché words--you know them. I love how you look on the thesaurus.com website and at the top it has some little quibble about “Here’s a way to say different in six syllables instead of three.” Wow! That's more than I bargained for or negotiated, whichever. 

But I get a little tired of English classes. Tired being forced to back up my opinion with someone else’s supposed concrete detail. Tired of their way of not teaching me anything useful. Tired of still questioning that English is the “right” major for me. I don’t know, I guess I expected confirmation that English was my “calling,” but so far all I have is an excited frenzy at the beginning of the semester and  an indifferent fatigue halfway through. In that way school is not cool. But I digress. I like riding bikes. Ahhhh. There’s nothing quite like the wind in your hair, the blazing sting of fresh air on your face, the feeling of your pulse as you peddle. That’s good stuff; it’s almost Hostess. Bah. It’s all just fluff-n-stuff. 

My naked self, the one who sings in the shower—yeah, that one—tells me “Pfft, you’re not athletic.” Dang. My self’s right. I do quite enjoy science, though. Every English major wants to make some joke about how they’re an English major because they’re not good at anything else (how insulting! they create rude stereotypes), but I am or I’m at least mediocre at everything else, even mathematics. (take that thesaurus.com) And I don’t even consider myself a 5 star writer. I’m just a cynically observant word-lover. It was fate that I became an English-teacher-certification major. I just do what they tell me and by “they” I mean various friends and people who are along the same genetic line I am who all insisted this was what I should do, as if they know all the answers to their life's quandaries. They predestined me to this pish-posh radioactive "subjective" major. It’s just not healthy. Oh hey and there’s thesaurus.com, “Healthy is a great word, but try out this longer and more expressive option.” Jerks. I don't mean to carry on, if I was so aggravated and plagued by my major choice (it's almost punny) I would change it. I'm just still seeking the affirmation Savage Garden sings about.