I could just as well be doing htis on deviantart, and I probably should as I've been neglecting my page there for a while now...mostly through fault of my own. I draw comics--very shabbily-paneled comics with fantastic dialogue I would insert in fanfiction instead if I liked to describe actions instead of drawing them. I suspect I only learned to draw in order to avoid writing, which I see now does not resonate with my long-cherished belief that I would make a great writer.

Careers are difficult. I have not chosen one; none seem to suit me, or rather I do not seem suited for any. My relatives keep giving me obvious and unhelpful advice, such as, "You know you'll do best and happiest doing for a living what you like to do." That wouldn't be work then, would it? I have many hobbies, but none to embellish a resume (ha! what business would I have making one of those?). Drawing, knitting, plucking bass... Now, those who work with power tools and wood you have to admire! Such bravery! I value my fingers too much, but those people regularly move their hands around the vicinity of such sharp and slicing things with only concern for the product...you could say the same about sewing, but it's not quite at the same scale.

Right now I am avoiding writing a persuasive speech in favor of writing depressing self-mutilating ramble. Speaking of self-mutilation, I haven't scratched in a while and probably won't until the weather gets to the correct temperature. I do not cut and for this I am ashamed--that's the most honest way of putting it, but I couldn't put it that way anywhere else. My sister, whose scars are raised and on the outside of her arm for everyone to see, inspires my jealousy. She does things whole-heartedly when she decides to be passionate. She sliced nearly to the bone and gave us all three weeks of scare...but that was a while ago. Six or so after that I found myself looking at her scars and feeling one-upped. It's especially biting because I am older. Till then I had only used a metal screw to scratch the outside of my forearms, but quit when I made to promise...I mentioned I was Christian; promises really bind me with miles of guilt. Well, I saw her arm and spent that summer gradually picking up supplies from the local department store--even got a dirt-cheap set of paring knives (with colored handles, that's how cheap) but found I couldn't slice my skin due to heebie-jeebies, so I use the point only and scrape over many times. What makes the promise not technically broken is that I only go on my thighs instead of the arms. It should be all right.

Good night!