I’ll never be a great writer, but I chose a career that requires better-than-average writing skills and consequently, have spent another weekend in front of a computer wondering why I continue to torture myself this way. I can’t remember why I thought this career was a good idea at the time, but having lost various things that were important to me in the process of pursuing said career (the only person I ever loved perhaps being the worst of these losses), I feel like it would be a shame to abandon it. Or maybe I tell myself this because I’m afraid to make a change at this point. It’s not that I don’t love what I do; it’s just that no one really explained how all-encompassing it would be. The monotony and the isolation have made me very one-dimensional. All I can talk about these days are work and turtles. Usually just turtles, though, since discussing anything work-related launches me into a lengthy, pretentious explanation of some obscure thing no one cares about. I’m intolerable, really. At least with turtles, I’m not so serious.
This month I spent time in a place where, once upon a time, I used to be really happy. I left the best part of myself here: the part that knew how to enjoy herself. I thought that I might find that missing part when I came back.
Instead, I found a turtle. I really don’t know what the universe is trying to tell me anymore.