Trauma and Body Blows

I just experienced a moment of absolute frustration. My girlfriend was raped and I couldn’t do anything. I lay on the floor wondering if my last meal would be a Stouffer’s French Bread Pizza (supreme). I’d be lying if I said my dive into Martial Arts had nothing to do with the event. Clearly it does, in fact, I’m almost certain I want to work towards a black belt, but that would mean staying here.

I was accepted into the film MFA production program at University of Miami, but I deferred for various reasons: not sure if our relationship could stand the stress, cost, and they waited to the last second to tell me. I hadn’t even looked at the campus. If I stay here I’m going to have pursue another degree of some kind. I am, unfortunately, one of those poor unfortunate souls addicted to student life. I have an MA in lit, but theory isn’t my passion, although some aspects of it fascinate me. The world of nine to five bores me, I tire of it easily. Academics are paid in free time moreso than cash, which does allow them opportunities to pursue other interests, but like I said I’m addicted; I never said I loved it passionately. There are times when I’m disgusted by the beaurocracy, the absurd tendency to overspecialization. You can’t just get a degree in creative writing, you have to focus on fiction OR poetry OR nonfiction etc. This discourages experimentation and gives the Ivory tower a little bit too much say in what qualifies as good writing—genre writing, no matter what anyone says, is seriously downplayed.