Breezy Sunday

Sometimes I really want to be a writer. I think I am just that selfish and lazy to think that I could potentially (attempt) to earn a living typing away at my laptop. Thousands, millions even have done it. Why can't I? Well...because my life and stories and thoughts aren't that intersting. Many times I bore myself. I picked up the phone and started texting and calling about ten different people to hang out last night. I hung up or erased the text every time because 1.) I should have been studying 2.) I was tired and 3.) because I couldn't think of anyone that wouldn't be doing something else already on a Saturday night. So I went home. I made dinner, watched the rain and hung out with Chuck. I don't even think he enjoyed my company as much as he would have if I were my Mom. What do I have to say that people would want to not only read, but PAY to read? I can't even bring myself to finish this term paper that's due in 72 hours. I am seriously considering turning it in half-completed and embracing the idea that I don't care to be a 4.0 student anymore. What does it matter? I'm booking appointments and folding t-shirts right now. This is not where I thought my life would end up and if I knew that it really didn't matter that I got near perfect grades in school I definitely would not have tried so hard. Because really, what DOES it matter? I'm just in a funk. I can't even appreciate the amazingly productive morning I had. Most Sundays I get up late, rush around, go to church exhausted and come to work. This morning, I got up at 830, hung out with Chuck, packed up stuff from Mom's to do laundry, did laundry, cleaned the apartment, went to the bank, at a healthy(ish) breakfast and came to work. That's productive! Oh well, I just need to be content with where I am. I really don't want to go to IUSB this fall. I really really don't.