There is something so post-modern about sobbing uncontrollably in a laundromat. You realize the incongruence of the setting and the action and wonder what wry pen is commanding you.
The reality of my starving artist existence is starting to weigh heavy on me. I do what I do very well, but I keep seeing people far less talented than me succeed so much more. I have to worry about grocery shopping. I can't keep up financially with my friends and boyfriend. I can't buy presents for my family.
But every job I look at I am unqualified for, I send out resume after resume and can't even get a personal response, and the careers I think I might love all require Master's programs for which I lack even the prerequisites. Yes, I should stop whining and go out and get started if really care, but it all seems so uncertain and so far up the road, and would require an acceptance of failure and perhaps a partial abandonment of my art. I am discouraged and nauseated with myself and what I've become.
I am so intelligent and so talented and so good with people, and this is what I've made of my life? It makes me sick to think about it. I am unable to see the light at the end right now. I'm sure it's there, but I just can't see it. Goddamn my insouciance. I feel like I've completely fucked over my whole life.