There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind.

I turned nineteen the other day. I practically have one foot in the grave.

I also refuse to believe that I'm paying $19,000 a year to learn how to make bar graphs. My teacher, Mr. Grubbs, is a man of very, very small stature. He talks very slowly and stands on his tip-toes to reach the top of the board. I'm pretty sure he's the nicest teacher I've ever had. Ever.

I'm also pretty sure I'll minor in Appalachian Studies. Because seriously, I don't want to leave the south. Except when I come back when I'm twenty-one to get my drink on at the Thirsty Turtle.

I spelled it "tirtle."

There's something sad about not writing for awhile. Refusing to write. There have been things on my mind, like always, but I'm finding that I have little to no patience for writing. I love it. Don't get me wrong. I mean, I'm majoring in Creative Writing. But that doesn't really mean anything. I don't have the patience of a writer. I don't have the skill or determination to sit down and pound out a novel.

So I throw all of these thoughts together. There's no point for transitions. Maybe for papers. Maybe not. It isn't apathy. I swear. Cross my heart. Maybe it's time. Maybe it's talent. Maybe.

Most days I just have the desire to hammock. Hammock and drink sweet tea and get diabetes. Or play the harmonica. Or climb mountains. Or boulder. But mostly get diabetes.

"I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"