People ask me that question a lot - you know - what's your major? What do you want to do? What field do you plan on entering?
And sadly (or curiously, depending on your outlook), my answer to that question has not changed since I entered high school at the great age of thirteen: I don't know.
I don't know what I want to do. I don't know my major. I don't even have plans for the future. Some people find it "noble" to live the life that "rolls with the punches" or that plays by ear. I find that the more I play by ear, the more lost I tend to get.
Don't get me wrong - the spontaneous life has its advantages. I am stress free most of the time. My friends tell me I'm very open and accepting because I'm never tense about, well, anything. I'm good at being without stress, and I guess if there was an occupation for that, I would succeed. Sure, I could take on a high stress job and live without having a heart attack, but it would hardly be a passion if I wasn't invested in it in the first place.
So what is my passion? Let me tell you: I like stories.
Today, as I was watching Jerry Springer in between afternoon classes, I had a brilliant idea. I was going to write a book about a young adult trying to get on the Jerry Springer show. Here's the plot...
Sherrie is an eighteen year old musician living in the small town of Boone, North Carolina. She has a wonderful boyfriend, and she is content with studying and playing at local shows - that is, until she is discovered by the legendary record label Jive (of Nsync and the Backstreet Boys). Her trip to Hollywood (without her boyfriend - she breaks up when she knows she's going big) is filled with publicity, booze, recklessness, and atrocious Lady Gaga-like fashion.
When her friends abandon her, she feels lonely, but her heart hardens like the Pharaoh. She goes on for 3 years after her rise to stardom, thinking she has conquered her loneliness and her conquest has made her stronger, but suddenly, her label drops her, because her genre (which was a dying genre to begin with) is no longer popular. She tries modify herself, and redefine herself into what is now popular, but it's too late, because she doesn't remember who she is anymore.
She now recalls the love she lost those years ago in Boone. The boyfriend who supported her - and the friends who loved her - they were gone now. Her skin had gotten thick. Her crutches - the money and the fame - were gone. Sherrie was now confined to a one bedroom apartment back in Greenville, North Carolina. She started out again. She started playing shows at the local hookah bar, but she still longed for people in her life.
She needed an audience again. She needed to tell the world that she still loved and cared for her friends. Sherrie called Jerry - Jerry Springer that is, and asked to do a spot on his show. He consented, because at this point in the future, he was no longer allowed to have opposing groups on television, after someone was killed on a live edition of his show. His show was now reserved for the likes of Sherrie, musicians who had lost their spark.
So that day, when people are usually taking their post-lunch nap, Sherrie told the world how she felt. She apologized to her friends. She told her ex-boyfriend that she still loved him. She told her parents she missed them (sorry, I just needed three elements so I thought I'd throw her parents in the mix).
So, in a Deus ex machinae turn of events (look it up), and since the show was still Jerry Springer - Jerry had a surprise up his sleeves. From behind the set walked the boyfriend (his character has no name), Sherrie's friends, and even the family dog, Sparky! They were all reunited on the trashiest show in America. Sherrie went back to school and did a show every now and then. The boyfriend stayed with her and supported her - and eventually he won the lottery, so they were filthy stinkin rich. The end.
So there, Ladies and Gentlemen, is my talent - my passion. I like making up ridiculous stories that have a distorted moral and where the ending is that of a Bollywood film (no offense to the genre, but they do end the same). I dedicate this post to my friend Meredith, who inspired me to write senseless stories, even when I do find them enjoyable to write.
Much love, peace, and Bojangles,
Carrie Gold
