I’m irritated today.
My technology’s going glitchy, and I’ve just spent 5 of the last several hours paying taxes. I’ve had to reopen this same document twice since I’ve started typing, due to crashes. I want a cigarette and a tall glass of beer. I want a bar of chocolate and a bowl of dried cherries.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am a frazzled lady.
I stumbled onto a “Men’s Rights” blog, which included a gem of an article detailing why you should not take a woman who is not fucking you out to dinner. I believe the exact words were, “It’s a waste of money. Take that bitch out for $2 tacos instead.”
So now I’m caught up in my own First World bullshit, lamenting the fact that I have a job with which to pay my bills and a little roof over my head. I hate the term “first world problems,” (Problems are problems, yes? Can we all stop shaming each other now?) but I also hate when I get this way. So discontent, striving for the next rung in the ladder, the next piece to the puzzle that I’m making up as I go along.
Is it a sickness of the culture I was born into, to want so much?
I wish I had infinite time with which to write, gentle reader. I wish I had a quiet place to do it. I’m halfway through with my novel, but instead of being proud and feeling accomplished, I’m just frustrated that the going’s so slow. I’m just chafing at the time constraints I feel so boxed into. Paying bills, going to work, the bank, the gym. Spending time with my family, however small it may be.
It’s precious little to complain about; don’t think I don’t know. And yet… I just feel like I have so much I want to give. So much I want to say. I’m tired of doing work I don’t love, for people I don’t love.
Tell me I’m not alone in this.