It's the World's Smallest Violin and It's Playing Just For Me

So I'm pretty much starting to hate my job. I mean, there's no denying we've had a love/hate relationship over the past year, but the more I think about it the more I don't want to be doing this. How long can one person talk about chicks in bikinis? UrbanDictionary has never come in as handy as with this job. I know now over 20 synonyms for the word "breasts."

Ultimately my dream is still New York City. For the last several weeks I've applied to several other jobs (all in NYC) in hopes that maybe I will cross paths with an even greater fate for me. But alas, nothing has come my way.

The biggest problem isn't my job, so much as the reality that I don't freelance -- at all. What kind of writer doesn't write?! The problem is I don't believe in my writing. I've never really liked it and I don't really know that I ever will. I've been told countless times that I write well, but everything I write is just train of thought rambles with no clear cut point or direction. Who the hell wants to publish that?

Things have gotten so out of hand that I'm going to a psychologist... for my writing. Not because I have mommy or daddy issues, or because my boyfriend talks down to me, or because I have voices in my head. I'm going because I get anxiety attacks just thinking about submitting my work somewhere.

Everytime I read an author's work it makes me want to cry. I just sit there and reread the sentences over and over again, as if to absorb the knowledge and creativity the author possesses.

If I don't wind up becoming a career writer I honestly don't know what I'll do with my life. I've done the whole administrative assistant thing, and it paid great, but I never want to do any of that bullshit ever again. As a matter of fact, if I can avoid office life altogether well, well that would be just fancy.

Alright, now I'm pushing things. I know. It's just that until I know my coworkers well I can't really tell them "Fuck off" and I know one day I'm going to explode and go ape shit and I'll be fired on the spot for flipping the hell out à la "Jerry McGuire."

I honestly feel like I'm becoming crazier with each passing day. I actually write pretty frequently, but then I go back and reread it and none of it makes sense. It's just a series of beautiful sentences jumbled up into an incoherent train of thought void of purpose.

It's not as though I want to be Thoreau or Emerson. I'd be the happiest girl in the world if I could write and publish books like those by David Sedaris, Chelsea Handler, Michael Ian Black, or Rob Sheffield.

In any case, I'll be in Puerto Rico for ten days in July for a much needed vacation. Well, that is if I can find a part-time writer to do Flisted while I'm gone. Ug. We'll see what happens. I'll keep you posted.