I'd Never Make a Living as a Writer

I'd starve. My editor would HATE me.

OK, enough fooling around. Write!

Either:

a) I'm an OK writer who could be better not with instruction, but a cattle prod
b) I'm a decent writer who is held back by an inability to write without extreme pressure or threat to life and limb
c) I'm a terrible writer with flashes of mediocrity---->delusions of grandeur in irregular cycles
d) I'm sick and tired of school and need a holiday.

I'll take d), because that's the only one I know for sure. I have a theory for why, for the first time in 2.5 years, I am only taking one SFU course but feel less energized than other terms when I have three on the go at the same time: I didn't go anywhere at Christmas break. I always go on a trip somewhere to re-set my brain, and in December I stayed put... well, you all know why.

*NEWSFLASH*! There is a God. I'm going to have a live-in chef. An Aussie houseboy. (ha ha -- just kidding, Matt)

Matt's coming back to Vancouver. He'll be staying in my apartment part of the time I'll be in Europe, and for about 10 days after I return and before he returns to Australia, he will be at my beck and call... I'm telling you, he promised me laksa way back in December, and he has the nerve to be "flat out livin' the dream", he says, riding his snowboard all day in Whistler and working all night... first that Aussie bloke Steve hitches all the way up to Alaska with my apartment keys in his pocket, now this Matt guy takes four months (it'll be five once he actually does it) to make good on his promise of laksa. What's with these Aussie guys, anyway??? I'll see Steve in a few weeks in London, but he's probably breathing a sigh of relief that this time I won't be making any toxic homemade sangria that renders one unconsconscious after an hour...