02/07/2025
I have the hands and feet of a dead man. Let me google what that means.
Anemia, autoimmune disease, blood or thyroid disorder, reaction to medication, or smoking.
That doesn't make me feel better, so like most of the bad news I see today, I will ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist.
I'm fine.
Lately, I've been thinking about my place in the world and where I'm meant to "fit." I keep telling myself I'll work anywhere to show other companies and hiring managers that I'm intelligent and capable of managing a Google calendar. Do I need 5+ years of experience to show I can operate a Google calendar?
It makes me mad. Mad that I worked through high school and college just to get out early and wind up back to where I started - questioning what I want to do in life. I thought, at this point, I'd have it figured out.
Writing this is making me a little bit emotional, and I don't say that to pull at heartstrings or to make you feel bad for me, Isay it because I'm trying to write down everything that comes into my mind. I studied writing for the past 4 years, but I feel like a fraud. So, bear with me while I get my thoughts down on a page. It's been a while.
I recently went to the Drew Barrymore show with my mom because I'm unemployed and bored and live 40 minutes outside the city. Anya Taylor Joy was a guest, and she said she practices radical honesty on a daily basis. She also said not to wash your face in the morning and to use toner and moisturizer instead: this will help build up your skin barrier. Anyway, I want to do the same - the radical honesty thing and the no-washing of my face in the morning.
I feel a bit of purpose right now while writing this. I know nobody will see it unless I've gained an audience of bored housewives and young girls who feel connected to my loneliness, but writing has become a therapy. It's always been a sort of therapy, a place where I can say the things I am too afraid to say out loud.
So, this is the first step to calling myself a writer. I am here, sitting at my desk, typing my thoughts. I'm doing something creative for the first time in a while, not because a teacher gave me a deadline and a harsh stare, but because it makes me happy. Even if it's terrible, even if it sounds like I didn't get a degree in whatever you can call this blog, it makes me happy.
I don't know what my cold hands and feet have to do with any of that, but we all have to start somewhere, right?
