This is a little hybrid post.
1.  Thank you all for your response to fresh abloom.  I have been waiting for the right time to write about depression, so the kind words were affirming.
2.  I just started reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, one of my favorite modern authors.  Once I’ve finished I’ll probably blog about food, vegetarianism, animals, God, humanity, or a combination of these.  Be on the lookout for that!  (Disclaimer: I love meat.)
3.  Three weeks is all I have left of my internship at Bethany Christian Services.  The ESL classes just ended, and I will miss my students/friends greatly.  I may post about this as well.
4.  In the mean time, here is a very short essay I used in one of my college applications a while ago:

I am not, by any means, a dictionary-thumping defender of the English language or even a potential English major, but I do have boundaries.  I am more sensitive to certain aspects of spoken language than most of my classmates.  My dad was raised in Virginia, my mother in New York, and my sister and I in Manchester, New Hampshire.  While I lived in New Hampshire, I was endlessly irked by the locals’ tendency to throw r’s onto words like “Asia,” making it “A-zhur.”  Now that I’m in Michigan, I’ve noticed some pronunciation mixups of the Midwest such as,  “He drove acrosst my yard.”  I normally let it slide, but I occasionally feel the need to gently suggest a t-removal procedure.  Since these trifles get under my skin, it makes me happy when a perceptive person hears me speak and asks afterwards, “Where are you from?”
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on doing good

Jobs.  It’s all about the jobs.  Gotta have one.

I really loved my first year at Seattle Pacific University, and the idea of going home and getting a job was offensive—not like the racist relative with whom you spend your holidays, but like the black beans you left in the fridge for too long, which now rot.  Laziness is really what it was.  My inner child sat on his chair in the corner screaming when he realized his summer would need to have some structure and—horror of horrors—productivity.

Reason won out, as it sometimes does.  But what should I do?  Barrista?  Hmmm!  Teach violin?  Yes, but that isn’t full time.  Physical labor?  Nobody would pay me for that.  Write a bunch and make a living off of submissions to literary journals?

Not easy, as it turns out.

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