I remember having all kinds of good thoughts. the having, not the thought. the journalness of the thought, but not its content. and writing this doesn't seem the same.

my dad confirmed it: he wants me to do medical rather than english (in all its esotericity). or, as he put it, "it's not too late to change and do emergency medicine." nice. I mean, maybe it took finding a non-writing interest I expressed actual attraction to to make him say how he really felt. of course, my mum's been against it from the start, but she's only just come around to tell me, "you need to write, and you need to teach, so you need to do this." I'm not sure how much of this is vicarious living, but there it is.