bock-bock-bock.

I think I'm a chicken.

Strike that. I know I'm a chicken.

There have been times in my life when I know I've been brave. I moved out of state without knowing a soul for college. I took Restoration and Early 18th Century British Literature. I've eaten Indian food.

But I'm terrified to get to things I really want. To this day, if someone asked me why I got into teaching, I wouldn't know what to say. The platonic answer I would give is that I want to empower youth and give them the tools they need to be productive members of society, but I can't really let myself believe that this is true. The truth is that I was a sophomore completely out of core classes to bullshit with and I needed a major. Yes, I admit it.

Don't get me wrong, I love teaching now. I love designing lesson plans. I love talking to kids. I love having control of a classroom. I don't, however, love the idea of staying in Alabama for my entire life.

I've come to accept that I probably won't go to England next year as I originally planned. That sucks. A lot. I guess I'll stick it out here and save some money and try not to get sucked into a permanent position. But I'm so terrified that will happen. Bock Bock Bock.

Since I was in high school, my crazy never-ever-in-a-million-years-will-it-happen-not-even-if-I-went-on-Oprah dream has been to work for National Geographic magazine. To go to remote places, travel, put myself into political and social unrest, photograph a rebellion, etc. etc. But I never had the guts to join even my high school newspaper because deadlines and the evil troll who headed the paper scared the living piss out of me. Bock Bock Bock.

When I came to college, an advisor suggested to me that I go into journalism. However, that would mean that I had to write for the Plainsman. The thought of my peers reading my incredibly insightful exposes on the Concourse bricks makes me want to vomit. Bock Bock Bock.

So here I am, finishing up my fourth year as an intern. Although I'm excited about the prospect of graduating and getting a job and an adult salary, I wonder if perhaps I'm being a chicken. It really is too late to turn back, and like I said, I like what I do; I'm good at what I do. But am I playing it safe? Is this what I want?

I've spent so long defending my career of choice, I'm starting to think I don't even believe in it anymore. That scares me. I can't be scared of what I know I'll be doing for at least the next 30 years of my life.

I try to placate myself by dreaming of writing novels or doing free-lance journalism, or moving to England to marry Bear Grylls. However, what's going to happen to me when I realize those dreams are a wasted look at a life I'll never have?

Bock. Bock. Bock.