.The Initial Distraction. (aka The Pilot)

I am not a writer. Nor am I a blogger. I find myself challenged in every way possible, literally. By literally challenged, I mean that I struggle with the precise and imaginative art that is literature. Sure, I've written my fair share of college papers fueled by Diet Coke and impending doom. There was even a point in time where I could crank out a 30-something line poem full of cleverness and wit, featuring absolutely alluring alliterations, obscure references to the college culture, and a strategically placed mention of a penis or two. The spoken rhythm of my words was even so perfectly crafted that it could be sung to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies theme song. Yes, it was that good, but no, I am no writer.

There are days where I do nothing but sit on my Mac, scanning Facebook and Tumblr for the taste of the talent and internet-induced life that I do not possess. "If only I were that clever!" says my brain. "If only I had a love story like yours!" says my heart. "If only the Twins could get to the World Series!" says no part of me whatsoever, for in addition to my literal impairment, I have no knowledge, talent, awareness, or interest in this strange universe they call "athletics". Still, I sit and thrive off the inspirations and imaginations of countless cyber personalities, rewarding their work with the validating Like or Reblog. Until recently my own not-so creative thoughts have sat quietly and obediently by my side, like a cat waiting for the opening of a tuna can. Patient and unwavering they have waited, these fictitious felines generated by my overactive imagination...as if I were holding the Can Opener of Abstract Thought. I finally decided that it was time to voice myself, right meow, in hot pink ink, written in my neat I-think-I'm-pretty-sexy cursive. There, with my self-alluring handwriting and a notebook from 2007, is where I set out recreate the world of my mind on paper (now online, where I knew my words would undoubtedly end up); to fill this very page with cautionary tales about instant wax, jokes that are only kind of safe to tell in front of your relatives, relate-able college anecdotes, and attempts at covering up the fact that you may need some serious help if you visualize your thoughts as hungry, tuna-craving cats.

Perhaps I may be struck by the glowing rays of inspiration, or perhaps I cannot sleep, but my guess is that perhaps, PERHAPS, my roommate is on the phone with her boyfriend and there is something about the mixture of her complaining and sickeningly-cute banter that tells me: "Distract yourself now, or vomit later." I don't need telling twice; I'd major in Distraction if it weren't so competitive already.