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I’m sitting here writing a paper that looks at the development of abortion rights in Latin America from a religious and colonial perspective. I don’t want to be writing this paper. I hate the fact I have to write this paper. I want to be in Latin America, not writing about it. Sitting on a beach, laying in a hammock, wandering the streets looking for something delicious to devour. Joining a group fighting for reproductive justice. Not writing about it so one guy can read it, grade it, and forget about it. After about every three sentences I write for my paper, I pop open Firefox and immerse myself in a travel blog, search a cheap fares website, or just look at pictures of exotic and beautiful places. I come back from day dreaming and hammer out the rest of a paragraph. I’m backpedaling, misfiring, completely lost in my own life.

If life is a highway, I’ve been stuck at a filthy truck stop for the last 5 years of my life.