Don't Even Bang Unless You Plan to Hit Something

I got a girl, and I gave her the keys to this blog. It wasn't quite a mistake, no, but the beauty of the secret blog is that it serves as a receptacle for my most unrepeatable thoughts. I can't really let 'er rip if I know somebody's reading who shares a bed with my on occasion - at least, not without frisking them for weapons before lights-out. So I let this blog become fallow, its mix of diary entries and angry rants festering from a lack of attention.

So she dumps me, and now I come crawling back. Typical, right? See, I switched my major, from English to Chemistry. Part of me worried that my words had been sacrificed when I chose to pursue a career whose promised future was more than $20K a year and cheese sandwiches. But I guess I can still torture a metaphor and craft a run-on like a motherfucker. I've become more masculine, but my writing remains as unsure as ever. I'm sure Ezra Pound would cluck his tongue if a gang of feminist critics hadn't dug him up and nailed it to a red wheelbarrow. Ah, well.