I fear I am growing into that adult who used to show promise. Bitter with a crease between my eyebrows. I say to the kids, "I was so talented at so many things, but unlucky, and nothing came together, and I gave up. Now I'm here. I guess this is enough."
I feel like I've lost my gift without ever even doing anything with it. Is something in me blocking me from success? Am I horrendously unlucky? Or maybe I just don't have it. Why am I so stubborn? Why can't I get over it and just be happy to live and eat food and have sex and watch the sun move up and down.
I wish I didn't want to do something so impossible. I don't know how not to write. Do I want to try to sell out as much as I can to possibly make a living at this? Or do I want to complacently work a job and write in my spare time? Publish is a few small houses here and there, if I'm lucky. Have a quiet life with satisfying bedtimes.
Nothing is moving right now. And the cells in my cervix continue to threaten to give me cancer.
I am that disgusting adult who almost tears up at the music that reminds me of when I was a kid and thought I could do stuff.
Grown girl leaking over Dookie by Green Day. When did this happen? Is this what giving up looks like?