posterity

so you're not a writer until you publish something, right?

and the only way you get published is if you write something worth reading, right?

That's a lot of pressure.

What is "something worth reading", anyways? I don't think I'm a terribly inconsistent blogger because I'm an inconsistent person, I think it's because there's so much fucking pressure for me to produce something that is  witty! and engaging!  and people just think it's soooooooo hilarious! and adorable!  Sex doesn't even sell anymore. (Because it's free. Unless you buy a subscription. Which is kind of like getting married.) People want clean and earthy and marketable and family friendly. Commercialized and packaged and wrapped up in bows and curls and balloons and --

I'm getting off topic here.

It's all excuses for why I'm not doing anything. Pressure. Ohhh, pressure this and stress that, and complain, complain. STOP. Get up off your ass, stop watching Food Network Star and cook something, for Chrissake. Go to culinary school. Move to London. (which I cannot do at the moment.)

Well here's the reality of the situation. Let's start with the basics.

I am female. I am 21. I am mildly attractive. I am Asian. I live at my parents house. I work at this ..err artist-based streetwear store. I still don't know how to but it cleanly, but basically, I ship packages for 6 hours, 4 days a week. Alone. In the backroom of a store-front. That sells graphic T-shirts and pillows and pins and shit to both men and women who like to advertise their love for the Simpsons, HipHop figures and weed jokes on their chests. I like to drink. Excessively. I like to smoke weed. Not as excessively (as I recently found out when I "quit" cold turkey). I use $15 an hour wage to pay off my car, my student loans and now, as I recently was reminded, need to pay off my now-in-collections college tuition debt from one year of college (which is about 16k, not including interest). Oh, this is fun. I do have a very loving and supporting boyfriend, who was the former best friend of my ex-boyfriend. And also both our roommates. (I know, I'm great.) My boyfriend works at a Fortune500 company as a Financial Analyst. (He hates the title: Accountant. He majored in Accounting. He's a CPA. Whatever, I indulge him.) He is quite the clown. Loves jokes. On me. Usually. He's 4 years older than me. I should have graduated college this year. Gotten that piece of official looking paper that tells you I can write and have read lots of books. (I was an English major.) My therapist says I'm very improved from a year ago. That's heartening, seeing as I've: moved out from living with my ex-boyfriend/fallen in love with his best friend/moved in with my family/quit drinking everyday/quit smoking everyday/quit taking way too many drugs on a regular basis/held 3 jobs last year/begun to watch entirely too much television/ decided to go to culinary school and still not registered.

So it's all good. I'm good. It's good.