One of the benefits of not calling myself a writer (at least, not in any professional sense of the term) is that I don’t feel funny at all about ignoring the rules. My screenplays don’t take the three act route; half the time, I don’t bother with proper sentence structure, especially in my fictional writing. I’m not being a rebel and trying to break the formal rules; that’s too punk for me to attempt to claim.

I’m just putting down the stories that come to me, in the words that come to me.

But cliches are repeated ad nauseum for a reason, and stereotypes take hold because, while there are exceptions to every expectation, certain experiences are mostly universal.

You can fit any situation into a pigeonhole, if you squeeze hard enough, too.

Driving around Irondale and Crestwood this evening, after emerging from the dramatics of the past month (not just mine, but everyone’s), it struck me that act III is about to begin.

I would say that the lights in the lobby went on and off to signal that, but then they’d take away my driver’s license and put me on anti-seizure meds, which doesn’t sound nearly as much fun as I’d hope it would.

It’s time for a change. Life feels very stagnant, despite the turbulent waters that I place myself in. I can create change, and I will. But I’m hoping that soon change will happen to me, as well.

In the words of my senior year AP English teacher, “Sometimes a whale is just a whale.”