I thought I knew what I wanted to do, I really did. I went into English literature heart first, head second. Then, after a while, I realized that I made the choice head first and heart second. And then eventually, it didn't matter. My head and heart said the same thing.

Write.

And then senior year came, and I realized that I wasn't as good as I thought I was (and believe me, I'm conceited - I thought I was pretty damn good). It broke my heart. I hate to pinpoint but it started when I couldn't please the hell out of my Romantic Lit professor. I just couldn't. I'm the type of person who, apart from being competitive and wanting to be the best, wants to impress people.

Sorry, I'm sure you're all cringing but it's true. I want to blow people's socks off. I'm arrogant.

But I just couldn't get through to my professor and I cried so much over that. I don't know what it was about him, really. He was brilliant, yes, but he wasn't the only one. He was just very ... appraising. If you sucked he would tell you, in more ways than one. He wouldn't talk to you, wouldn't even look at you if you weren't worth his time.

All through that semester, my ego was bruised, broken, and left for dead. I have always been liked by English professors but that guy ... he was just something else. I could just tell - he thought I was in the wrong course. When he gave me a C+ for a paper, I almost burst into tears in front of him. But he saw me cry. I couldn't stand it. I still can't.

I'm graduating in less than two months and all that happened in the four years I was a lit major was my gradual deflation. I don't know what I'm going to do next. I don't know where I'm going to go from here. I keep thinking, maybe I should have been in a different course. Something I didn't love so much. Something that doesn't matter as much.

That way, if I fail, it wouldn't hurt this much.