Love the life you live. Live the life you love.

This past semester, for my Music of The Beatles class, I wrote a short story about a boy who spent his Summer of Love seduced and tainted by the soothing relaxation brought upon by the drug formally know as Quaalude. My professor told me that I should send the paper somewhere to try to have it published. I wish. It would be so easy to do something I actually enjoyed in life versus the distasteful, degrading, and tantalizing profession referred to as nursing (no offense to those who actually enjoy it; we all know they say that it's not for everyone). So, why not do that? Because being happy is too easy. Apparently, I seek out the pain and go for the things I know are no good for me. I should write more.