Thriller

It's only been my first day back for the school year's third term, yet my hand already hurts like hell. My writing hand, that is. There's a word for that... a certain thing you get from writing too much. It's at the tip of my tongue. I hate when this happens -- when you know something so well but have a hard time placing it. Okay, this is me rambling.

But I see now how effective my majors were today. I officially began my major subjects for my course, AB-Literature, today. I was extremely nervous and anxious, arriving a wee bit too early and taking a seat in the middle that hopefully didn't make me come off as a total brown noser.

My first professor, for the course Introduction to Drama, resembles a school mate I once had. I wouldn't exactly call us chums, for I'd merely pass her in the hall. We were acquainted, but only when a major event in school was happening. She was short and stout, shoulders slumped, and wore her long, unruly hair pinned up (just as unruly) at the back of her head, with a giant "clam" clip. Or whatever those weird hairclip things are called. But when this certain professor opened her mouth, she was reminiscent of my mom's boisterous, tobacco-addicted best friend with a voice that growled when she spoke. Interesting, I thought to myself.

I only had two classes today. As I waited for my next class, Creative Writing for Literature Majors, in walked Arty. You know, the lanky, bespectacled Glee aficionado who sits in a wheelchair but manages to belt dynamic show-tunes? Yes, my professor for that certain class resembled just that! But, of course, he towered over us. When he opened his mouth and started to orient us about the course, I instantly was reminded of a very well-loved English teacher I'd had back in high school. Intimidating and amazing with words, but still managed to be witty and make the entire class laugh. He provided us with a strenuous writing exercise, timing our freewriting abilities by asking us to count how many words we were able to come up with at a specific amount of time, and then letting us divide it by a number that would equal the number of words per minute that we are capable of producing. After that class, I was pooped.

This is what I asked for, I know that. I was inspired to become a Literature major after my high school English teachers introduced me to their own world of Jean Valjean and Jaffert, short stories, and epic Words for the Day. It's just the first day, I suppose, that has got me all worn out. I can't wait to be introduced to three new courses tomorrow. If what I experienced today is all I'll be experiencing for the next four terms, then I'm perfectly happy.

I wonder what I'll think of this entry when the next few terms approach.