Anxiety is my ride-or-die apparently and gosh I wish I could kick her out of the car.
It’s been a rough few days.
I’m tired of feeling gross.
Tired of not having the kinds of friends here I can confide in. That’s on me, a little bit. I know a lot of happy gadflies and while they’re super fun to run around with, they’re not confidantes.
Work is awful, like unwaveringly terrible and awful, I feel overlooked and undervalued and that’s weighing on me.
Writing = rejection right now, over and over, from journals and writer friends. Just, everywhere.
Do I stay or go? On so many fronts, existentially and temporally and now.
I just don’t know.
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