August 27, 1998

(From my AP English class journal, senior year in high school. We wrote and our teacher read and commented back, so that the journals became conversations. In spite of the naivete and Goth-lite need for self / avoiding anonymity, I think I might've been onto something.)

Sometimes my friends get inspired to really live and they say stuff like, "Let's do whatever the hell we want!" OK, I can't say that wouldn't be their version of living, but it's not mine. Sure, it'd be fun to ditch homework and responsibility and go somewhere, but to me it's not really living. I'm not in a big hurry to get out of high school. High school has been one of the most--probably the most--interesting and sometimes enlightening experience of my life. I like to learn. One of my friends told me that she and her boyfriend might move to Ireland after she graduates and live there for a few years. I'd love to do that, but I won't. I'm going to go to college and major in paleontology and hopefully get a job that, while it won't pay much, will be something I will truly love doing. I hope I'm making the right choice. I worry about it sometimes. It's my life, and I'm only going to get so many chances. Maybe only one. What if I'm wrong? I guess I just have to trust what my gut has always been telling me. And it goes to one of those things that you had written on that one paper. It said "making a life vs. making a living" or something like that. I may be eating Ramen noodles every night and driving a Chevette, but at least I won't be stuck behind some desk at an office, drowning in anti-self and anonymity. I hope I'll be able to look back at my life from some point in the future and think, "Wow, that was really something." And not just something, but something meaningful.