Internal Struggles, Argument Style

Maybe I do argue with myself...I denied it earlier today, but I've been having a real internal struggle about the rest of my life. Helga asked me today (pretty much out of the blue) why I am working at this job if it's not what I want to do with my life. I don't know where she got the idea that I don't want to be doing what I'm doing for the rest of my life (I don't, but I don't advertise that to her either), but then again...why am I working there? I'd say the money but it's not much. Barely squeaking by, I feel like. I don't even have the money to fix the growing patch of rust on my car. It will fall apart before I've saved enough to fix the original hole. I mean, I enjoy some aspects of my job, like looking at phytoplankton, culturing them to keep them alive, literature searches and library research, talking to people at all stages in their careers... But then again, the plankton are really too small for me to grasp as living creatures, I have a slight conceptual problem with swimming plants, and biochemistry really isn't the ecological level I feel most passionate about. I really love looking at population dynamics and ecosystem changes. It's not what I do that I don't like so much as the level is really too small for me. Somewhere in the Antarctic proposal there are population dynamic projects written in, but I don't think our group is working on them. Shucks.

On an entirely different note, I've got 14 inches done on the front of this sweater, and I most definitely can not knit on Qantas flights. Tragic. I hope to finish this sweater for Jim's birthday. That would be so nice. It's too bad he had to spend so much on his car today.

I think I'm growing more and more obsessed with what I'm going to do with my life. Scary. I have a long and ever-increasing list of things I'd like to do with my life. Shockingly, working at Bigelow is not one of them, not unless a certain person disappears. Said person shall go unnamed. In case in his/her many hours of wasting time on the internet he/she comes across this blog. And knows it's me. Yikes, scary. I kind of like knowing almost no one reads this. I should put a counter on my page... :)