I tell people that I'm a writer, but that's an empty statement. I love to write, I really do, but I know nothing will ever come of it. That's why I'm stuck in a major I have no passion for, sitting through classes that make me want to shoot up Harvey Hall, preparing for a career that will drive me insane. I mentally train myself to perk up when I think of my future prospects, telling myself that I'll find an internship and a job that will suit me, then, eventually, but not really ever, moving on to something I truly love. Just writing to make a living. Writing what, I've no idea.
Maybe I'll write a smut novel. My best friend and I enjoyed the selection Wal Mart had to offer.