The words used to come out easier. But lately, all I've done is write for hours only to eventually find myself repeating what I normally do...paralyze my pinkie finger on the backspace button deleting my thoughts and words one letter at a time. I've forgotten what the point was and resolve that it wasn't all that important to begin with.
I figure I needed to really attempt writing it all out again, pointless or not, because how I've been handling it is getting me nowhere.
I'm in a relationship. It was working on it. I've reached the point of realizing I've put in too many overtime hours without any benefit. I need to move, and I'm struggling with it. I question what it is I'm struggling with...is there something telling me I've been going about it the wrong way or am I hitting that age where I'll take what I've got because I've ruined everything else and loneliness is my only other option.
I hate my job. I don't really. It's just not what I want to do. What I want to do gives me a lot more freedom but a lot less pay. Can I live off freedom? Ideally, I could, but freedom doesn't pay an overdue electric bill. It doesn't put food in my stomach. I mine as well look for a job raising magical ponies. Both would be equally non-realistic.
I would like to find the body wash that erases the mysterious pheromone attracting all the perverts to me as of late. You think this is me speaking from arrogance, but I've had more than one too many incidents of attracting the wrong crowd. Something is raising red flags around me saying, "Yes. Feel free to talk to me, react to me, attempt to molest me. I don't mind." I do mind. What can I do to give off THAT vibe.
I've fallen of Maslow's Pyramid. I've allowed myself to be satisfied at the bottom of his triangle, and barely so. I'm barely a trapezoid.