Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.

― Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

I majored in English (4+ years ago). A friend and I once had a discussion about why we English majors still refer to ourselves as such (you never hear of an “Engineering Major” outside of a university, just an Engineer). We decided it’s because we’re still trying to stake claim on that artistic side of ourselves, because we often don’t hold jobs where you could tell. Anyways, English. I’ve always been a journaler, a writer of feelings, an occasional poet.

I am a compulsive over-sharer. I always have been. I think this has been built out of moving quite often since graduating high school (4 states in the last 8 years) and a desire to be KNOWN. Like, truly known. But isn’t that part of the human experience, that desire?

I am a dabbler. I try little bits of everything (I have had watercolor paints sitting on my kitchen table for months, with practically nothing to show for it, except for a few lovely little flowers), I am committed to nothing. I am interested in questioning the status quo, and I was raised to not ignore the social injustices around me. And to always have a vegetable on my plate for dinner (Sorry, mom).


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