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I turn thirty-five in twenty-seven days.
I've never been one to freak out over milestones. Whatever, I'm turning twenty-one. Who cares, I'm turning thirty. It helps that I age like my mom, who looks 10-15 years younger than she is, and I can pass for around twenty-five most of the time. Also, I've got a book on Amazon. I'm back in school and loving it. I have my own apartment all to myself. I'm employed, which a lot of people are not.
These are all good things.
Except.
I'm lonely. I wanted to be a mom by now. I wanted to be published by an actual publishing house by now. My paycheck for this week only covers half of my rent, and my electric bill -- put off when I arranged a payment plan with PPL last month -- is due next week. My cell phone's been shut off since the beginning of last month. My family's just as broke as I am. I'm probably going to have to ask to do the Paypal thing again, and it just makes things feel even worse than they are every time I have to do it, because all it does is make me feel even more of a waste of space than I already am.
The turning-thirty-five thing doesn't help, because regardless of the common sense part of my brain saying shit happens and not everyone is where they want to be when they want to be there, the depression part of my brain is telling me I'm worthless and helpless and I should probably just go throw myself in front of a car.
Is it possible to curl up in bed and cry for an entire month? Because I think I may have finally reached that point.
So, yeah, I may end up being a little maudlin this month. And hugging my cat more than usual. And wishing upon wish that no one in my family has the genius idea to throw me a surprise birthday party, or a regular birthday party, or do anything more than leave me alone on my birthday to do anything other than get drunk alone and feel bad for myself.
... aaaaand now that I've brought the rest of you down, here's a video of a fussy bulldog puppy.
I've never been one to freak out over milestones. Whatever, I'm turning twenty-one. Who cares, I'm turning thirty. It helps that I age like my mom, who looks 10-15 years younger than she is, and I can pass for around twenty-five most of the time. Also, I've got a book on Amazon. I'm back in school and loving it. I have my own apartment all to myself. I'm employed, which a lot of people are not.
These are all good things.
Except.
I'm lonely. I wanted to be a mom by now. I wanted to be published by an actual publishing house by now. My paycheck for this week only covers half of my rent, and my electric bill -- put off when I arranged a payment plan with PPL last month -- is due next week. My cell phone's been shut off since the beginning of last month. My family's just as broke as I am. I'm probably going to have to ask to do the Paypal thing again, and it just makes things feel even worse than they are every time I have to do it, because all it does is make me feel even more of a waste of space than I already am.
The turning-thirty-five thing doesn't help, because regardless of the common sense part of my brain saying shit happens and not everyone is where they want to be when they want to be there, the depression part of my brain is telling me I'm worthless and helpless and I should probably just go throw myself in front of a car.
Is it possible to curl up in bed and cry for an entire month? Because I think I may have finally reached that point.
So, yeah, I may end up being a little maudlin this month. And hugging my cat more than usual. And wishing upon wish that no one in my family has the genius idea to throw me a surprise birthday party, or a regular birthday party, or do anything more than leave me alone on my birthday to do anything other than get drunk alone and feel bad for myself.
... aaaaand now that I've brought the rest of you down, here's a video of a fussy bulldog puppy.
