Browsing around for my favorite blog post for Fabruary, I just ran into Lou Plummer’s What Were Your First Seven Jobs? I say “browsing” but I was really just going through only his archive. I knew when I decided to participate in Robert Birming’s Fabruary that the post I would submit as my favorite would be something written by Lou.

1. I can remember what was taught in my Applied Linguistics class by the shirt my professor wore.
2. My biggest secret is an unending fascination for the Momversation in which mommy bloggers discuss motherhood.
3. Some people in my Dutch Language and Culture program are bad at spelling. All of them want to be writers.
4. Times a day I realize I probably don’t want kids: 17.
5. I’m terrified of failing University. During the day I’m scared, and when I’m not scared, I’m asleep. I’m a 4.5 GPA.
6. Sometimes I miss Frédérique Huydts.
7. Annual occasions that prompt a re-reading of Bridget Jones’ Diary: birthday and New Year’s.

It was indeed great while it lasted, until about three weeks ago. Churning out little posts, coming up with fun tidbits, roaming the streets of Eindhoven with a little noteback. Getting feedback. Compliments. Your mother’s cousins’ daughters’ coworkers are reading your blog. And then university life begins. And there is time for nothing.

So here’s a change of strategy, and of pace.

This website will be featuring different forms of content from now on. No more updates on my general well-being, college achievements, and peculiar trains of thought. Sure, there’s enough happening, but the focus isn’t where it should be: on a white piece of paper. Instead of feeling shame about my lack of commitment, I will simply change the contents.

I remember it well, my transition from elementary to high school. Gone were the old days of person teaching every subject in a single classroom. Everything would be new again. New subjects, new people, teachers, supplies. It was the supplies that kept me up at night. Books were to be given the right cover, of course there would have to be a new pencil case. New notebooks. A diary.

Choosing was never my strong suit. I could stand there for hours, by the neatly arranged tables of school supplies. After all, they would have to last me the entire school year. The right supplies, this I figured, would lead to the right achievements. I was so young back then.

I’m not one to dwell on the negative, but let me just come right out and say it: I fucking hate summertime.

Like, “I hate Brussels sprouts” hate. “I’d rather be eaten alive by a shark” hate. Whatever you hate most, times 70. That kind of hate.

If I had a gun, summer wouldn’t live to tell the tale.

April showers bring May flowers, but in my world those flowers take the unpleasant shape of anxiety. I need a summer job, because I’d like to start off university with a buffer, but I also want to do fun things because it’s so warm. A morning job would be perfect, but mostly if it’s indoors. Not on some farm. Also not in a shop. Also not in some sad warehouse. After such a long, sanctimonious list of Things I Don’t Want, I’m left with two options. This is how I become a postal worker. The other option would’ve been morning prostitution.