Come, Mr. Tally Man; Tally Me Banana

Well, it's been a solid week since I've posted and I've not much to show for it:

• I have little recollection of the weekend (save for being extremely tired from three shows)...
• and nothing interesting to say about finals Monday and Tuesday.
  (And there were so many good quotes, too...)

Wednesday, however proved quite interesting... I had gone to bed with a headache and woke up with a screaming migraine. So I took some Excedrin and traipsed off to my art final; I did stop once on the way and prayed to God that a midget with a spear would fall from the sky and stop the whole violent nausa/blinding light/timpani pounding thing, but to no avail.

Once there, my pieces received rave reviews. But the thing lasted for THREE... and a HALF... HOURS! Needless to say, I really didn't feel like packing my shit up, but I did nonetheless. Went out to eat that night with Victor and Shane at Chili's... had a good time discussing the wait staff...

I loaded everything today and checked out of my dorm; while having lunch at Hog Pen, Dr. Lopas was there (my art prof)... he said, "I don't know if you had any doubts or not, but you definitely aced my class."

So this got me thinking. For my first eighteen years, I was good. At everything. Then I got to Hendrix and it all turned to crap. I feel as if I've gotten to a point where I'm treading water... no ambition... no striving for success... my only goal to be average, nothing special, and mediocre.

And then something happens where you realize that there may still be something that you're good at; something that you enjoy having in your life; something that makes people appreciate having you in theirs. I guess this goes back to the post I had a while back where I said that everyone needs to appreciate and to be appreciated.

There's a part of me that makes me want to say, "Fuck it all. I'll be a photographer and a graphic designer and an architect and a starving artist. Or maybe just a teller for the rest of my life." But can I really guarantee that I'll even be happy then? Maybe this is just a rebellious swing from the whole medicine thing.

Maybe I'm just fucking crazy. Cool beans.

Oh. And Mom just told me that since Mark hurt his leg, I'll have to till the garden Saturday. In the immortal words of Tessa, "Shitty."