I just want to write and write and read and write and read some more. And since I’m me of course, I want to read some more. And since today was such a shitty fucking day I blame my mother.
Because on shitty days I remember that I wanted to be a writer and a teacher and while I’ll admit that I would’ve been a horrible teacher-I cant decide whether I selectively like children or not- I would’ve been a great writer. Prolific. Genius level. Or so I think. Who knows.
We certainly won’t ever and for that, I blame my mom. Like most black mothers she told me that I needed to become a nurse or something that would pay well so that I could take care of myself. So of course I secretly vowed not to. Only to do exactly that.
So when today was a shitty day becuase my partner wasn’t very partnerish and I got sucky news about a writing thing that I was really looking forward to, I spent most of my day sobbing about the fact that I would rather have been a struggling writer and went to some shitty as liberal arts school so that I could have at least known what it was like to be what I want to be most, a trained writer.
I also vented to one of my best friends for an hour only to be informed that I have “white people problems” translation rich people problems. (No my ass is not rich.) So let’s say first world problems. I did laugh when he said it because I’m not silly, I realize in the midst of my breakdown that three black men have died this week and America is losing it’s mind over whether disobeying a police officer is reason enough to die. And maybe that’s why I’m feeling so stuck, so tired of doing shit that doesn’t make me all the way happy, because life is so fucking short. Even more short when you’re black and a woman.
Regardless, in this moment I am miserable, whiskey and apple juice does not cure anything, and I just want to write, and write, and write some more. And maybe sleep.