My Future Will Be the Death of Me

    Ever since I was a wee tot, I knew I wanted to be a veterinarian or some kind of doctor. I gave up on the veterinarian idea because:
a) Despite being a sophomore in college I STILL can't spell it right and
b) A hurt dog would make me much more emotional than a hurt person.

    As for the some kind of doctor, one day my mom suggested Physical Therapy. I researched it. I liked it. I planned to pursue it. (Probably the most uninteresting way anyone's ever decided on a career ever.)

    I think the biggest reason why I wanted to major in something involved with health sciences was so that I'd be equipped with the knowledge to help myself, my family, and my friends. But it seems with every class I take, I'm becoming more and more of a hypochondriac.

    At the moment, I'm taking an Abnormal Psychology and a Nutrition class. With every new mental disorder I learn about in the Abnormal Psychology class, I read over the symptoms and freak out if I have more than two. Even if they're extremely general like indecisiveness or a short temper. And then my Nutrition class covers the physical part of the health spectrum. I'm pretty sure if I don't become a vegan and closely monitor my intake of every nutrient daily I'll die. But then the stress from that could be just as deadly according to the health class I took last year...

    I guess to an extent everyone's a little bit of a hypochondriac (or at least I'll tell myself that). With all of the psychological and physiological problems known to man, there's got to be a pretty significant chance of everyone in the world having at least a couple health problems.

Which really sucks.

Also! I started a week-long vegetarian diet yesterday for a Nutrition project. This seems like a logical place to keep track of how it's going. So far I've gotta say: any diet that allows me to eat (meat-free) pizza is awesome in my book.

This is a comic about when I told one of my friends about my project choice:

Way Too Much

This white box already feels like a scary, judgmental abyss. And I'm supposed to somehow fill it with something interesting to read? Sugar dumplings. I shouldn't have dropped that Nonfiction Creative Writing class after the first day.

I'm not sure if what I write really matters... I don't have any unique life stories (exactly why I dropped that previously mentioned class) or an active imagination.

Lets see. What happened today. I wrote my great grandma a letter! It's a hard task for me because I'm not sure what a 94 year old woman wants to hear about. When I'd ask my mom she'd say I should write about what's going on in my life right now. I can't imagine my great grandmother wants to read about how I'm a self-centered little punk with cellular devices and loud, hippity hoppy music.  So all my letters to her follow this format:

-Greetings-,

-Update about my life that's not much different from when I last talked to her a few months ago.-

-Update about my other family members.-

-Mentioning the weather here in Maryland and pointing out how different it is from the weather in northern Minnesota.-

-Awkward closing and mentioning that I can't wait to see her in the summer or at Christmas.-

Once I'm done typing my extremely simplistic letter, I'm at a loss about the format. What font is easiest for an almost-centenarian to read? What font size is big enough for her to read but not too big that it offends her diminishing eye sight?

If I've learned anything from these awkward experiences, it's that I'll make it clear to my grandchildren and great grandchildren that I'm interested in hearing more than how their school year is going.