The last time I wrote a poem was for a class in college. It was about a shark who ate people and it didn’t end well for my mental health. I still wake up at night worrying about the Malawi Terror Beast.
What I’m trying to say is, I don’t know anything about poetry. I can’t remember the rules for writing a sestina, I’m not sure what differentiates an ode from a ballad and I wouldn’t know iambic pentameter if it systematically chewed my face off, Malawi Terror Beast-style. I can identify a haiku and a limerick, but I don’t know what T.S. Eliot’s deal was and I can never tell if e.e. is cummings or goings.
The trouble with vacations is that they give you way too much time to think. I just came back from a vacation that I spent sitting around reading books, eating things that were frighteningly orange, making lists, and having an existential meltdown.
Long story short, I’m graduating in May with no idea what to do with my life and it recently occurred me that eventually I’m going to be old and decrepit. (I’m fun!) How easy would it be to get stuck in some job I feel apathetic towards and waste decades of life? SO EASY, is the answer to that. I know this is absurd and that it doesn’t matter what I pick because I can change my mind. I keep telling myself that, but it isn’t working. The only thing I’m sure I’ll be when I graduate is the kind of obnoxiously pretentious person who claims to have existential crises. The point of this story is that I’ve had a relapse of the second-to-worst kind.