I went to see Julie&Julia a couple of days ago for a friend's birthday. It was the perfect adorable chick flick, and the worst decision I could have made at that moment.
You see, I am Julie. Er...and Julia. I am Michulie-a.
Seeing images of Paris brought back this terrible nostalgic feeling, like I had finally figured out how to teleport, but could only move the upper half of my body. My mind was in Paris, my feet were on a popcorn-encrusted floor in Colorado. And then there was Julie's story, about writing novels and never finishing them, about wanting to write and be read and actually getting published in the end. And watching that was like someone had read my diaries, done a little bit of creative work (I am, after all, so definitely not married), and set it up on the big screen.
I'm mad at myself for not having kept up with this blog all summer. I've been writing my thesis and working on some fiction stories I really am going to try to get published; not sure yet if I'll self publish or if I'll play the game with an agent. I want to do some more research, first. But with my last semester starting pretty soon...and with no more internship to talk about, I'm going to have to change my blog subject again. Maybe something more permanent?
Who knows? Does it even matter? Anyone reading that cares?
p.s. I have come to the devastating conclusion that I am one of the most depressing people I know. Dang sarcastic pessimism. It's like an awkward birthmark, no joke.