"Told the truth to get what I want, but shot it with no shame"

In order to maintain some sense of propriety and not reveal the fact that I’m actually a raving lunatic, atheist and struggling artist, I am taking an exam called the Engineer-in-Training. People in my field take it so that they can grow up to be professional engineers and advance their careers through a serious of bureaucratic hoops, none of which are particularly relevant to where I want to be a decade from now. I’ve finally convinced myself that if I am going to take this exam and thus began the tyrannical onslaught of studying the same shit that gave me nightmares not so long ago, I'm going to teach it a thing or two. After a couple weeks of ruining sleep, annoying passers-by, screaming expletives out into our suburban neighborhood, compromising fragile relationships and virtually forgetting the Word I will be prepared to sit in a room with a few dozen other preening Gentiles and give ‘er a go. The fact that this test is one of the expectations required by the program I’ve decided to undertake does not escape me. Even still, my hatred for the role of this nonsense in my life has me vicious, bloodthirsty, willing to sacrifice sanity in order to bury this ridiculous “test” of my completely unused skills in a shallow grave. Somewhere that wild animals can get to it. I'm good at my job and this proves nothing.

It’s not that I mind hardwork, see, I just feel like I’ve given enough. This is supposed to be my time, and it is being compromised. This exam, more than anything, has made me realize that I must escape this function in society or I will not survive it. I’m pregnant with literature and corporate America does not offer maternity leave.

On that note, I’m feeling the affect of taking two classes on early Saturday morning, usually still hung-over and sweaty from the bad behavior of Friday evening. My poetry professor looks me in the eyes when he talks and criticizes the smallest increment of my writing, the same flaws he completely overlooks amongst everyone else.

Some poor soul, the vibrant hatchling of pure brilliance, has decided that I might be worth a shot after all; the entire arrangement buttressed with disclaimers that she merely brushes off. We've read the same books in seperate time zones and batter our way through life in full contest of astrological phenomenon that we share a birthdate. The argument may be that nothing has changed, but I'm starting to feel as though I might actually exist here.