I'm a walking chick lit stereotype.
I'm in my late 20's, with a journalism career that pays pennies. I live in a tiny apartment with my guitar-playing, poetry-writing boyfriend. I'm surrounded by my gay best friends. I've gained 15 pounds since college. I have charmingly insane parents who live five minutes away and call me 10 times a day.
Every weekend, I go out with my artsy, single friends and drink pink cocktails while I entertain them with humorous stories from my week.
Actually, the more I write it down, the more I realize I don't have it SO bad. But still.
I'm sick of being stuck in this bubble.
I feel like I'm just going through the motions of life, without trying to figure mine out.
I've spent the past two years trying to write a book. I have so many stories typed out, spread out on different computers. Some are even the same stories, just written in different tones. And I'm not satisfied with any of them. In fact, I hate them.
It's just frustrating that I spend most of my day writing news stories, that by the time I want to write for myself, I feel dried up. My creativity is expired. I just want to sleep.
And because I spend so much time writing for work and pleasure, I don't have time to work out. Like, in a gym. Hell, I can't even afford a gym.
I just wish there was more time in the day. I just need a couple more hours to do the things I want to do.
But for the past six years, my life has been the same. Write for work. Write for pleasure. Laugh with friends. Go to bed. Repeat.
The lack of time in the day makes me want to scream. I want to lose 15 pounds. I want to finish this fucking book. I want to live life, instead of watching it pass me by.
But instead, I'm going to cry about it and then get back on the hamster wheel.
Because I'm too tired to do anything else.