Two-ish years ago I got a day job.
The day job isn’t great. It maybe was once, but now it is just where a lawyer and my boss said I was lying, where my union rep told me “you have to be perfect right now”, as if being a short, femme, woman in a male-dominated field that is not already expected of me, where my coworkers treat me like their admin assistant if and when they even remember I exist. Mostly they don’t. Mostly I can be alone.
I have a notebook with a blank page. I have a pencil. But writing is just like work: another way to get rejected.
There are things about me I don’t like, so then others don’t like me either. I write stories that people think are odd, but aren’t odd to me. They are just what I am. People will never love me the way I love them apparently. That’s just the way my brain works now.
Maybe I’ll write some words down on a piece of paper. Maybe it’ll turn into a story. But probably I’ll just end up feeling sorry for myself while laying in bed, annoyed at my coworkers, but, in all reality, actually annoyed at myself.
