dear my frustrated mind-fucked overly worked can’t find a job with 2.5 degree havin immensely tired and impossibly miserable ass woe is me on my fuckin diary havin a panic attack about having a panic attack about all of the mistakes i made in the last year and then… still nothing, dear my fucking diary,
I’m still nothing.
i’m not happy at all. I can write and read all day now and I’m still not happy. I have two people that love me immensely, still not happy. Very few friends, very pretty home. Lots of gorgeous wants. All needs met. Healthy family members— excluding myself, of course. Still in suffering. Still venting. Still feel like disappearing to some place far away… and still hoping to get swept off my feet by a Prince or a dream job like so many people actually have, like, yah— it does happen bitch— just not for you.
Maybe daddy was right and I should’ve been that miserable lawyer, or had that baby for my abusive rich x. Money sure would solve a lot of fuckin problems right now.