So, I look around my room, and I look at my myriad unread emails, and I look at my friendships, and I look at the plethora of unfinished stories, and I look at my prayer life, and I look at my collection of books, and I look at my hands typing, and all I feel is dissatisfaction. Sometimes I feel amusement, a little joy, a little sadness, a little anger, a little hope. But most of the time, when I stop for a second, it's dissatisfaction. I feel like I'm being stretched thin, like a chicken breast pounded with a hammer on a cutting board until it has doubled in size and tenderized to be wrapped around some other piece of meat. Is that what life does to us? It pounds us until we can be stretched around whatever crap they want to stuff us with? Now I know why the chicken always tries to leap to a bacterial and dirty end on the floor, rather then go through the fire and become food for someone who the chances are good won't even appreciate the work put into the dish or enjoy the flavor to finish it. But jumping isn't my only option, is it? (that was rhetorical) I know my other options: quit my current job and travel, stop dancing and get my writing done, stop trying to write and take dance classes, move to ohio, get a house with Drew, and the list goes on beyond what I feel like writing. I just need to not be here, doing this.