I’m tired of it all. All the assumptions— all the accusations. Sure, I’m “bright” and my talents are decent. I can add numbers, motivate people, talk, persuade, argue, make decisions, shoot a gun accurately, break a few hearts, keep my temper, care for a child, and so forth— small things, but everyone can do small things. Just because I can do small things and pull out a 4.3 GPA everyone assumes I have to grow up and be a neurosurgeon or chemist. The thing is, I don’t want to. I hate everything about the medical field— excluding psychology, I love asking why— and I don’t want to be stuck in a lab or dealing with chemicals. It just isn’t me, nor will it ever be. I love my pencil and the stories that just flow from it. I love my sketch pad and the image my heart is screaming out at me. I love the way my hands look when a communicate without a sound. I love asking questions and thinking of answers no one else can. I love cray ideas. I love things that went so far out of the box that UPS had never heard of them. I like asking why Marlin (from Finding Nemo) never met a funny clown-fish. The only problem is— I don’t know what I want to do with all that. I don’t know what I want. I love sign language and being a translator wouldn’t be bad, but am I good enough? I love writing, I love the discovering different personalities I never knew I had, but could I make a career out of it? Maybe I could be a teacher, but would I hate it? Would it kill me looking around at faces that just don’t care when I’m so independent that I struggle to let a guy I’ve dated for months and months open a door for me? I don’t know, I just don’t know, but I don’t want to mess that choice up. Yes, I could go back and change my mind, but it’s a shame to waste time, so much time, and the sand is already falling.