sitting in journalism is sort of like torture. It's the time before I see him and the time after I have to deal with math. I want to cry when I step into journalism. I smile and I get yelled at by my editor, even if my work is finished. I guess when you're done with your work in this class, you're supposed to ask for MORE work instead of revealing in the joy of being done. It's a visicious cycle, sort of like when I had the eating disorder, and I would throw up and never got any skinnier, and worried and worried about being discovered. Finally I got to a point in my life when I couldn't help it but to throw up after a meal, and if I didn't book it to the bathroom, I was screwed. It's a like a tar pit. That is what journalism is like to me.