I will graduate in May. Five words that I recognize should elicit some sense of joy and relief. Yet in place of feeling joyful I feel panicked. My heart begins to race as my mind sputters one thought upon another . . . I feel it even now, my heartbeat increasing as I think about this semester and the next. Latin, statistics, anthropology, geology, senior thesis, my current schedule is in order, yet it looks and feels foreign to me. What destiny have I put in place? Latin? Why am I learning Latin when I want to speak Italian? This question is easy, the school does not offer Italian, as an aspiring writer Latin is a logical choice. Aspiring writer? When did I become an aspiring writer? It's always been teaching. And I have not taken one single writing class, and when would I write? I hardly have time to place a few words on a blog every now and then. My degree has no room for writing classes, for pots of paint and empty canvas, for literature to inspire or enrage. How did I get to here? Academically speaking I have arrived at a juncture that has me questioning my academic career and the choices I have made.