Okay. I didn't make up this clever title. Rather, borrowed from my yellowy dog-eared copy of Wally Lamb's She's Come Undone, my reference encyclopedia for the interstices of life. Though I've never lived at two sixty-two Pierce Street, you could interject any address I've occupied and would be just as accurate. I've begun to write for several reasons which might as well be defined now, so as to have some sort of guide on this path of self-indulgence.
1) My life plan went to hell today.
2) I need to find a new one.
3) I melt without a plan.
A very dear and overly considerate professor-turned-companion has suggested I write daily (and work on my grammar). I do not exactly recognize the value but figure I might as well heed the advice of the wise, as my quarter life crisis has infected every decision from toast or yogurt to marry or break up. I begin this with hope for a little insight, clarity, and a way to pass the time until I get to wherever I am going.
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