late spring cleaning

I totally rearranged today. I switched from winter to summer clothes in my armoire, put my shoes there as well and replaced my shoe cabinet with cds, dvd's and games/gamelike things. I alphabetically rearranged the books in my book cupboard and tidied up the ones on my windowsill...I got rid of some of the crap under my bed, got rid of some clothes and found some stuff I thought was lost...like two singles of two different pairs of flip-flops.

I even threw out a 1/4 of my makeup that was gross and old, and organized the rest (which, if you know me or have seen it, know that that is one hell of a job).
Unfortunately, I didn't organize my earrings and other jewellery....that's going to take some coffee and a long nap before I tackle that problem.

I went to Wal-Mart today. It wasn't my choice, I would have rather gone to the mall to get my swimsuit top, but that wasn't where the driver was going, and I was just the passenger. Everytime I step inside a Wal-Mart I feel it slowly trying to consume my soul.
I want to cry for the poor children who slaved for three times less per day than the insanely low prices the store is willing to offer on my Cambodian made lycra swimwear.
I want to cry at the obese people able to overstuff their cart with saturated fat in the form of food due to the crazy low price the supermart offers.
I want to cry at the people who look like the result of many generations of redneck-hick inbreeding, able to shop with millions of others of the same type, who need not worry what they look like, because the higher-class people who actually care about their looks and a little bit more quality go to Zellers.
I want to cry for the teenager, the old woman, and the middle aged man that need to wear "How can I make you smile today?" old and disgusting frocks, probably still unwashed from the last person who quit the soul-sucking place.

This was my...fifth(?) time approximately in a Wal-Mart, probably not the last, unfortunately, but definitely the most depressing.

On the way back, the kids' mom said that I should write articles for the Observer, our local bi-weekly paper serving our township. She said my writing is good. She also said I'd probably be very good at journalism.
I like it when people compliment my writing...even if it's journalism.

Tonight, I called my older sister, and she said she was talking to some guy she works with who goes to McGill, and he said that one of the Uni's I am contemplating in Montreal is very good...for journalism, because that is what my sister asked him about. (Although, it is good for just writing in general...phew.)

Why is it that when I tell people that I want to get into Writing and such, they assume journalism?
I HATE JOURNALISM.
It's so dry...I find it very boring and semi-difficult to write
(ok, not difficult so much as just....really not so creative)
It just saddens me is all.
Why can't they assume I want to be a novel writer, or a short story writer, or a poet, or a playwright, or a screenwriter, why do they have to assume journalism?
I don't get it.
Do I look like a journalist?
(I don't even know what exactly that job description entails totally, anyways.)

I am pretty sure the only syndicate work I could ever do would be an opinion article...maybe I should do psych in uni as well, and do an advice column...I already dish enough of it out every day anyways...

One thing makes me curious though. Their mother said I should write for the paper? I really don't know what I would do. I don't think they want stories....
???