When I grow up (Part II)

Since Thursday, I've been thinking slightly a teeny bit more about careers, career options, colleges, curriculum, and so forth. Well, yesterday I filled out my course thingy for next year. Yes, folks, I'll say it: I picked AP Psychology. Will it be easy? Ha! But will I like it? I hope so, because instead of having it for just a semester, it'll be all year.

So why, Jordon, why? Maybe it's because I know and like the teacher, having had him for two courses previously. There's no way I'd go into AP European History even if you'd given me a million dollars and a pony. Anyway, I need to have two electives, and this year-long class counts for both of them (all the other electives suck). And also it could be that I like the subject. Yeah, I guess I do.

I really do need to think of a career path, though. As I've always said, people without career goals become waitresses. And I don't know about you, but I can't stand cigarette smoke. I really need to take one of those career aptitude tests. It looks like there are ways of taking one online, but I wouldn't trust any of them. I'd have to take one in real life. Anyone have any ideas?

Anyway, I thought more about being a writer. But writing is hard. Heck, everything is hard. Why bother with anything when there's nothing I like. I don't even like to read. Well, I do, but I don't know what I like to read. Take today for example: in English I had to check out a book from the school library. To do a book report on. (Now you know why that's my favorite class. What other high school student is doing a "book report"?) Well, I couldn't find any that I liked. They all stunk.

But anyway, this isn't about finding out what I like to read. It's about what I want to be -- something I'm just as in the dark about.

Writing is hard. Any writer can tell you that. So why should I bother, if I'm not even sure that's what I want to do? Even if it was what I wanted to do, what if I wasn't good at it at all and I couldn't improve so I just had to give up? Then where would I be? I'd be by the off-ramp of the freeway selling flowers, that's where! And I'd have to lie and say I'm a homeless vet, because "homeless writer" doesn't tug the same heartstrings.

In my ideal world, everything would be figured out. I would love my job and make a decent amount of money at it -- enough to go on vacation, say, across America. I'd live somewhere with a pleasant meteorological and political climate. I'd have enough money to defray the cost of running this hugely popular site. I'd be happy and healthy and live in a good house with a good wife who would be charming and smart and give me sweet, sweet lovin'.

So, anyone wanna give me some writing tips? I'm thinking fiction here, like that last paragraph.

Anyway... Each day really is a new day for a Briton named Clive Wearing, as this article explains. Wearing suffers one of the most extreme cases of amnesia ever recorded; every moment is like waking up for the first time since a virus destroyed part of his brain 20 years ago. He can't remember much except who his wife is. Interesting read.