When you reach a spatula in the road...

I'm still being indecisive about my future. I'm a woman. Like we have any capacities to make real decisions. Ha! Ask me which color wallpaper I want, and... well, I don't know that, either. Ask my cats. They share their great ideas with me every day. They're my round table in any intellectual conversation regarding home decor.

Anyway, as I see it, I have a few choices right now. The first one is to go to grad school and try to get a post somewhere as a university professor when I graduate. Secondly, there's the option of becoming the crazy international traveler; I can teach English abroad, do working holidays in various countries, and write story after story about my adventures (that will be half read by about five people until they use them to line their birdcages). Thirdly, I could go the writing route: books, short stories, screenplays, random journalistic endeavors, or a special story dictated to me by the voices in my head. Finally, I could buy that large refrigerator box and move down to the beaches of Florida.

Being a professor. Well, I'm sure it would give you more peace of mind than imagining me shaping the minds of five year olds. We'd end up with little smart asses plotting the overthrow of the sandbox hierarchy, all the while carrying a jar of peanut butter with them as their trusted companion. Shaping the minds of college kids would be better. I could assign papers challenging them to write something as truthful as what The Onion produces, I could illustrate all of my lecture points by playing Wiggles clips, and I could enforce a classroom dress code consisting of only things Noel Fielding might wear on an episode of The Mighty Boosh. I'd also remove all the desks from the room and start every class with a rousing game of Duck Duck Goose. Come on, who wouldn't want me as their professor?!

Then there's the travel route. I'd have cool stories, lots of unfocused pictures of random buildings that hold no significance whatsoever, and the cheapest souvenirs I could find to send home to people that I deem worthy of receiving a tiny ceramic sculpture of a pigeon. Hey, pigeons are the birds of love. Don't you know anything? They intrigue you with their boldness, and then ultimately crap all over you. Sounds about right, doesn't it? I might be able to compile various books that I could publish on rolls of tissue paper because it'd be the only medium I could afford. Kids crying in the bathroom at high school proms could read 'em.

The writing option. It's been my dream since I wrote the story about the 15 cats in the garage when I was eight. Utterly scintillating fiction. You must endeavor to read it one day. It's aptly titled, too: "The Cats." I know, I know. Impressive. I do have some interesting stories to tell. I mean, I did go from living in a town where moose outnumbered people, to living in a town where surfers outnumbered people who wouldn't surf because they were terrified of sea turtles, to a town where cows outnumbered people, to a town where hairy Italian men outnumbered non-gorillas. I got some things to share! Who wouldn't want to read stories centered on the crippling fear that sea turtles produce?

Finally, living in a box on a Florida beach. It would be sweet. You know, until one of those "hurricane" things drowned me. But whatever.

Decisions, decisions. If only the voices in my head would tell me definitively what to do.