that mystical mythical land

Honestly, I feel like I have grown up so much in the past few weeks.  Yes, yes--I grew up so much when I was abroad, but that was a growing up of a different kind.  Rather like maturing.  This growing up I've done in the past few weeks is that kind where I realize HOLY SHIT what I am going to do with the rest of my life?

Here is my conundrum: ever since I was in kindergarten, there has always been that "life after college" idea looming over my head.  "Oh yeah," I'd say, "aftercollege I'm going to become a teacher and get married and have kids." Or "aftercollege I'm going to travel the world." Or, "aftercollege I'm going to ride a bike from California to New York and go to all the ice cream stores and then write a book about it."  (Because wouldn't that be awesome?!?)  But here's the thing--"aftercollege" was never really a real thing.  It was just a mystical, mythical far off land that was filled with whimsy and wonder and paychecks and a lot more job opportunities than there seem to be...

Aftercollege was supposed to be simple.  It was supposed to happen naturally. Instead, I'm finding that the land is coming towards me at an alarming pace.  It's no longer a country, but an asteroid that is hurtling towards me and will undoubtedly hit me on the head in a very painful way.  I'm already getting the little hail stones, in the form of, "What are you doing after college?" and "What are your plans for May?"  The worst is when someone my own age or younger asks, because then all I want to say is "I don't F***en know--what are you doing, smarty pants?"  Only then it's bad if they have an actual answer, at which point I feel even stupider.

I don't want to seem, however, like I am complaining about the fact that I will graduate. I'm excited to graduate (another word that for some reason still has little meaning to me).  I will find a job, or I will write a novel.  I'll be fine, no worries.  So long as I finish this essay that I'm only halfway done with... that's due in about seven hours... Oy.

But anyways, I should mention something about literature, or something, no?  I feel something is amiss when I do not.  So, let's talk about American Literature, just for a second, because I really do need to write an essay.  On the use of sex as a device to break down binaries in Toni Morrison's Sula, if you must know.  Yeah.  That's right.  It's legit.

So, I have realized in the recent past (namely the past six months that I spent in England), that I like British literature so much better than American literature.  Don't get me wrong--I love a good reading of Ramona Quimby, Age 8, and anything written by Louis Sachar or Lois Lowry or To Kill a Mockingbird.  Yes, there is a long list.  But it does not compare to the list I have of favorite books by English authors.  England has Harry Potter, we have Twilight.  England has His Dark Materials, and we have The Hunger Games.  Bummer.

But, I think I need to start reading some good old American Literature. And I refuse, steadfastly refuse, to start with Emerson or Thoreau, because as blasphemous as it is for an English major to say this--they have put me to sleep every time I try to open their writings.  Every time.  I need to reread The Great Gatsby, I need to read The Grapes of Wrath (sidenote: did you know this was a first draft? As in a rough draft? WOW and I haven't even read it yet).  I need to do some reading.  Also, I need to do some writing.  So I'll pick this up again later.

I have an irrational fear of foam,
L.R. Ogden