Passion

I'm sitting here, fighting against my better sense that are screaming at me to go to sleep, with that derogatory word "Moron," thrown in there, trying to decide. I'm sitting here watching the battery life on my computer dwindle from a mere 21% to a shocking 17%. I am clearly too lazy to get up, walk 7.3 feet across my living room and plug it in, plug it in. As it continues to drop to a 16% I continue to sit here and ponder. All day long, all I have thought about is writing. It has become a part of me, and is rapidly turning into an addiction. Yet nothing spectacular has happened. Nor, shockingly, has anything insanely awkward happened. (Odd, seeing as it's my life...) And yet I wanted to write every minute of it down. Not because my life is so thrilling, by an stretch of the imagination. Just for the mere sake of being able to write. I think I have a disease or something. Everything that happens to me turns into a story that is waiting to be written. And you would be surprised dear readers how often I end up writing it in my head. And then laughing out loud, and creating more awkward situations. (It's the circle of life, and it moves us all...) I think that this I what we call a mild dose of passion. And the best part is that it's not even good. Some of it is less craptstic than the rest, but alas. It is still immature and impressionistic. And I don't even care. It's the best, and yes, that was supposed to be read in a Latino accent. It makes me so excited to delve (yes, delve) further into my Journalism classes just because I get to learn how to write good. (Ahem, well. What?) So as I brush my teeth tonight, I will more than likely be thinking about how to turn in into a brilliant piece of writing. And don't worry; I'm not crazy. Just mildly passionate. Thank you, and goodnight.