Perhaps it's the promise of spring

I feel good.

You might be tempted to ask "Why do you feel good, Whitney?"

Well, after signing up for a writers' group, training to be president in Divine Comedy for next year, working with Women's Services in a couple areas of outreach, applying for summer internships, writing a headliner for our February show, establishing a deaf-friendly best of show and its advertising to the Deaf community, teaching Relief Society, working part-time, taking upper level classes and soon to be adopting a grandparent for community service credit for Honors 240--I feel pretty good about this semester. Which makes me wonder, how big can a person's proverbial plate essentially get? I imagine last semester I would have crumbled under this kind of pressure. But at the moment I feel very good about life.

So good, in fact, that I wonder whether it is me at all that is conquering this shopping list of life.

That is a philosophical way to let you all know what I'm up to these days. I thought an update would be appropriate given the dirth of personal information I've included in many past blog posts. Now that that bit of tedious exposition is out of the way, I've something of a crucial nature to discuss: my unhealthy love for chalk.

You see, I've known I've had this problem for some time now. It's just taken me this long to admit that my habits are hurting not only me but also those I love.

It started out as a mere inclination to sniff the chalk erasers in Young Women's during the third hour of church. I'd casually pick up the dusty bricks, inhale once or twice, and return the instrument to its powdery place. In the last two years or so, however, an addiction has arisen out of this harmless inclination. I now find myself scraping trays at the bottom of chalkboards every time I pass one so that I might not only inhale the satisfying aroma but also ingest the tantalizing mineral calcite.

I cannot explain myself. It's as if a deep, burning part of me is overwhelmingly satisfied whenever I expose myself to chalk. Like eating Thanksgiving dinner in a matter of seconds with thrice the richness filling your palate. Even recalling memories of these white mini-feasts causes me to salivate more than I care to admit.

Now I know what you're thinking. My iron count is constantly above average for women my age. I drink milk everyday and I've never troubled myself with other less redeeming habits such as cocaine. Though ice in the context of frozen water hits a similar spot for my inedible eating habits.

There is a box of Crayola chalk pieces on my dresser given to me by a very supportive and understanding friend. I have whittled a piece of chalk in that box down to mere centimeters solely from ingestion. I tell you this to illustrate how far this addiction has gone past my control.

After several interventions from concerned loved ones, I have ceased denying that I have a problem. I now am making the decision that it is time to snuff out to this fire, to tame this wild beast, to stop this terribly gross and unflatteringly habit.

But I cannot do it alone.

Friends, family, loved ones--I plead for your assistance. I dream of one day pursuing the plans I'd made so long ago. No longer burdened with this weakness, this vice. I can only achieve this dream with my band of loyal fighters behind me, ready to defeat the ugly thorns of humanity. Are you with me? Can we do this together? Can I throw off these mighty shackles?

With all the energies of my heart that beats behind dust-filled lungs, I say, "Heavens, yes. I can."

I will.