day 47 of hearing everyone praise someone else for my brilliant idea - even my reflection in the mirror looked disappointed this morning. i practiced accepting awards, but it feels like a comedy where i'm just the punchline, trapped in this performance of professional life. wondering if this will finally be my big break, or just another sad episode of “let's pretend someone else came up with that....
it’s 3am and i just binge-watched every episode of that mini-series about a girl from thailand messing up a military commander’s life. meanwhile, my ex is posting heart emojis with someone new. like, why didn’t i think of jumping through dimensions to find a partner? i’m still here scrolling, waiting for a notification from someone who forgot my name, and they’re on a date with someone who gets to...
everybody’s talking about how incredible johnny weir looked at the olympics, and here i am, sitting in the break room watching my coworkers post pictures of their brand-new cars while i'm still paying off my last bad decision. it feels like everyone is gliding effortlessly through life, except me, who’s still fumbling for a grip. and as i pour my heart into training the new hire—my replacement, no less—my own dreams seem to be packed away, like a costume from a show that never got a chance to perform. my phone buzzes with a notification about a friend closing on a house while i still don’t even have a proper bed. as i fake a smile for the barista who pours my coffee—who's way too perfect for this broken dreamer—it hits me... am i just a spectator? when does it become my turn? but then, out...
everybody’s talking about how incredible johnny weir looked at the olympics, and here i am, sitting in the break room watching my coworkers post pictures of their brand-new cars while i'm still paying off my last bad decision. it feels like everyone is gliding effortlessly through life, except me, who’s still fumbling for a grip. and as i pour my heart into training the new hire—my replacement, no less—my own dreams seem to be packed away, like a costume from a show that never got a chance to perform. my phone buzzes with a notification about a friend closing on a house while i still don’t even have a proper bed. as i fake a smile for the barista who pours my coffee—who's way too perfect for this broken dreamer—it hits me... am i just a spectator? when does it become my turn? but then, out...