Dear (perhaps long-gone) readership,

I have neglected you shamefully over the past several months. My brand-new propensity to bottle up my thoughts, my stories, and my daily frustrations is a novel sensation for yours truly. Prior to this new habit, I had an age-old propensity of hurling massive portions of incoherent words at a blank screen, hoping that in the hodgepodge of attempted literature, a coherent thought might emerge.

In short, writing was my coping mechanism.

It's not any more.

I'm torn as to whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. It swivels towards "good" in that I no longer feel as though my emotions must first and foremost be expressed in writing, pushing many other literary attempts to the side as I batter my thoughts out. However, it's "bad" because I'm neglecting to write entirely, as life's noise no longer inspires word hemorrhage.

This past week I began my second clinical externship at an undisclosed-for-privacy-issues hospital. I am absolutely and completely in love with it. Which is good, because (as you know, dear reader) I haven't loved much in my major in the past two years. Blips of joy were occluded by nagging, criticisms, nit-picking, and a constant sensation of microscopic scrutiny when it came to all things clinical. Today, after two hours of therapy, my supervisor told me two things to do better. JUST TWO! Where there was previously an hour of correction and reproof-- JUST TWO! My last few weeks at my prior placement had a similar amount of correction (i.e. a miniscule amount).

I was SHOCKED.

And pleased.

Maybe I'm finally ready to be a speech-language pathologist?

I will work harder at my writing. Promise. I miss it dreadfully, and I would keep writing today, but... I've also shockingly abandoned vacuuming lately, and I can ignore the clutter no longer.