Plan C

Be a farmer.

I think I’d like that.  I like dirt.  I like getting up before sunrise.  I like solitude and nature.  Animals are okay, but I think I’ll just have cats and dogs.  And a horse or two or three. Maybe I’ll have a vineyard in California.

That’d be pretty sweet.

(I’m totally screwed.)

Plan B?

I’ve been contemplating what I will do if I do not get to work with TFA, which, seeing as my phone interview was less than stellar, is not unlikely. Barring any unforeseen extenuating circumstances, I sort of have a plan.

Move to either Portland, Oregon or Seattle, get a cheap flat, a job in food services and live.  Maybe write.  Hopefully spend some time volunteering, since I desperately feel the need to un-self-center myself (as college has so thoroughly self-centered me).

My problem is that I’m not great at anything.  I’m perfectly well-rounded.  A round little ball with nothing outstanding.  I’m not good at anything particular and I don’t care about anything particular.  I can do a little dance, play a little piano, a little flute, a little clarinet, write a little, run all right, play tennis okay, play various other sports, understand politics, understand history, understand philosophy…. but I’m not great at anything–and nothing really turns me on.

I can’t believe it’s come to this.  I mean, I always assumed I’d be good at something, or really care about something.  Anything: medicine, law, journalism, animals, cooking, writing, history, politics…. but no.

I don’t really see the point of the rest of my life.