True to her name.

Sorry I haven't updated this thing like I promised, but frankly I've been too depressed. I know that's no excuse, but I don't think anyone reads this anyway so I'm just letting myself down more by caring.

Anyhoot, here's a little something I wrote about my recent depression:

The small windowless office somehow came to represent freedom. The white walls and stacks of broken technology somehow gave me power. With them, I was the leader of something good, something with purpose. I was an editor, the editor of the arts section of the greatest paper you could ever work for. The Maneater is one of a kind; writers can work for any section, they can design and take photos. They can dictate much of their own work. As an editor, you are seen as the best and that's what I was. The best arts editor at the Athens of journalism, Columbia, Missouri. And like in Athens, the founding place of competition, you have to be the best or get out. So I devoted life to the section, and as a result, had to choose between it or myself. I chose it. The choice cost me my standing with the harsh School of Journalism, which stripped me of my spirit.I had to give it up. Now these walls represent failure, the office a constant reminder of my inability.Everyone inside succeeded when I could not. I am no longer of importance in this room that dictated my life. True to her name, she chewed me up, and spit me out. Touché, Maneater.