Programming.

So, I decided to branch out before locking myself into a major--most likely English, but you know how it goes--and enrolled in a computer programming class this semester.  My thinking was, if I love video games so much, why not see if I could help create them for a living.

Erroneous assumption, right there.  See, in my naivete, I neglected to realize that computer programmers are involved in much, much more than merely video games.  On the first day, our professor reflected on the fact that cars made after 2011 generally utilize about forty CPU's. Mind. Blown.

Predictably, the first few weeks were easy.  Mostly learning the in's and out's of computers, as well as the specialized lingo most programmers use.  My confidence level was regrettably high.  Then came the actual programming.  Now, I'm as bright as the next kid, even generally more so, but the moment I attempted to code in Java I felt like a caveman trying to drag a cart on square wheels.

Bewildered, I approached my professor to ask his advice.  He merely shrugged and told me if it was too difficult, I should drop the class.  Immediately, my hackles went up.  Drop the class?  Admit defeat?  Oh no, sir.  I mentally hiked up my pants before stomping back to my computer to stare at the incomprehensible strings of characters.

After a frustrating twenty minutes in which I pestered my neighbor to the point that he most likely wanted to strangle me, I was staring at a fully functional program.  Granted, it only found the average of three numbers, and took about ten minutes of error hunting to make passable, but there it was.  Delighted, I ran the program at least five times, inputting numbers, and suppressing a shriek of glee each time it ran smoothly.

Then I made the mistake of glancing over at my neighbor's screen, which displayed a program to calculate payroll.  This alone would not have been impressive if hadn't realized that he'd included taxes, overtime, vacation hours, and holidays.

Luckily, I resisted the urge to reach over and alt+f4 that showoff.

But it was close.

Doubt.

I am supposed to be writing here every day.  And every day, swaddle myself in blankets, drape a snuggie across my shoulders and stare at this blank space until I can't stand it anymore.  No one is reading it.  No one will complain if I do not write.  Yet...

Each day I return to stare at the page, and it mocks me.  It's blankness a constant reminder that I am inadequate, unoriginal.  Nothing pithy or amusing comes to mind.  I stare, and I stare, and I wonder.  I wonder if this is what I want.  To stare at a page day in and day out.

Several pieces of advice suggest that when one is stuck, just write what comes to mind.  This is my attempt.

I lied today.

In an attempt to placate an agitated dementia sufferer, I spun a wild tale about snowmobiling across the wilds of Canada with a group of friends.  I have not been snowmobiling since I was a child, and even then it was merely to tow the neighborhood kids around on sleds.  Once, I turned a corner too sharply and flung one of them into a tree.  That, however, is beside the point.

It did no harm, this little white lie.  I wonder even now if the person will remember it when so much of their vital memories have already slipped away.  The concept makes me...melancholy.

There was an episode of Doctor Who in which a girl named Sally Sparrow stated, "Sad is happy for deep people."

I think of all the moments that took place in that person's life that will never return.  With no pictures or stories, the memories are all that remain.  It's as if with each dying cell, each lost connection, the pieces of themselves slip away.  Their personalities crumble.

It's heartbreaking.