As a 9th grader, the only phone numbers I got were those etched on the bathroom stall. And half of the time, no one answered.  On Public Displays of Affection, I was hardly the expert. Never mind that this was my first newspaper assignment; I was straddled by the onus of mingling a few hundred words that suggested my knowledge of affection transcended the warm nose of the family dog.

Certain that I was screwed (and not in a way that would lend journalistic credibility), I sat down the night before the deadline to a blinking cursor that taunted me. I typed until I was bleary-eyed, blessed it with spell check, and with a pat on the ass and a smooch goodbye, I fired it off to the editor.

When the article went to print a few weeks later, my cynicism and sense of humor were surprisingly well received. Cranked out a few more articles and found myself with my own column. Before I knew it, I had a penthouse office, a garaged parking space, and I was swimmin’ in women. Alright, fat kids are poor swimmers, but I did place in a few writing competitions. It seemed that a few people enjoyed reading what I scribbled on to dead trees. And for the rest of high school and the duration of college, a hobby took on life.

Now, as I stumble into my third decade of consuming oxygen, I have a B.A. in English that I have never utilized professionally and a monthly student loan payment that rivals my Ramen Noodle budget. (If you find any grammatical errors, remember, I went to a state school.) I have spent the past seven years working in medicine, with hopes of attending medical school.  It has been just as long since I have put a single word on paper. Despite over 14,000 hours in clinical medicine and countless patient experiences that I hold dear, I have failed to secure a seat in med school. Turns out, the MCAT has nothing to do with cats and a lot to do with Organic Chemistry, neither of which I understand.

For years I have been smothered by advice about writing, but a seemingly small breath that has stuck with me is simply, “Write what you know.” It is cliché, I know, and should probably be stamped on some motivational poster with fluffy puppies frolicking through sun-kissed wildflowers.

At this stage, it would be an understatement to say that I have no idea what I am doing with my life. But I do know that I have missed writing, no matter the topic or the audience.  For me, it is therapeutic, introspective, and simply amusing. With that in mind, this blog serves as my first juvenile attempt at regaining the practice.  I can’t promise to charm, entertain, intrigue, or offend my reader(s), but it is my hope to do so. Consider it a public display of reflection.