Whozeewhatten

My life is essentially that of a writer pretending to have a real sort of life. I currently have three writing classes, I work for a newspaper, and I’m a project leader on several poetry areas on WEbook. All of this is to help facilitate my degree in creative writing (poetry). Today in the English building’s restroom, I read some graffiti: “English majors are future McDonald’s employees.” I beg to differ. English majors are capable of any number of jobs at the mall. In addition, I agree with my mathematics teaching assistant when he said, “I shouldn’t make fun of you, you might help me edit my dissertation.” Which may be true, but it’ll be after I get off of work ringing up books at Borders. 

In my previous years I served as a search and rescue operative in the US Navy, and I worked hurricane sorties as a rescue swimmer, as well as a counter-drug auxiliary. But I’m talking about tons of cocaine, not joints.  Now my body is used up and slightly broken, so I just sit and type. Which helps, because I have to do a lot of it this year.

I’m also an avid fan of gonzo journalism. More like rabid, actually—at least before I got all my energy out in the Navy. I was enamored with the gonzo concept so much I took to hitchhiking across Mexico, which in turn is not a wise move because you might end up with the following : Amoebic Dysentery; a mother who has a panic attack when she receives a call asking to look up a location in the Sonora outback when she thought her son was somewhere in Texas visiting a friend; or getting punched in the face by two Frenchies that were riding a bus with me and decided to get the upper hand when we stopped in a tiny town that only had one room available for the night. At least I made the ten-day trip on less than $80, and I lost twenty pounds from Amoebic purging. I'm sure I was quite charming as I crossed the border into San Diego, toting bottles of tequila, a backpack, soiled clothes, and a torn woven blanket that was supposed to have been a gift for my panic-stricken mother.