And it really makes me wonder

I refuse to call it writer's block.

Maybe it's too soon, way too soon, I don't know. Gah. The cursor's doing that annoying blinky thing again. There are ideas in my head, all whirring and whizzing, but they get easily dismissed as soon as they whir and whiz by. Too sexy, too idiotic, too schmaltzy, too inane, too surreal, too happy, too la bohemia.

Christ.

But the words do come. I am actually writing. Just... not in my genre. My major, may I remind everyone?

Scoff, scoff. Sasha the poet. What next? Astrosphysicist? SuperHero In Training (S*H*I*T)? Nuclear moleculobiocomburgeonery... ist?

Don't resist it, said one poet over his seventh beer. Don't fight the transition.

I'm not fighting it. I just don't want to lose what I came from.



PS
Happy Father's Day to all the daddies out there. Especially mine. Labs, labs!