Painfully Obvious

I don't know why I decided to be a writer.  Most would say it's genetic.  Others might say there were no other options.  I'm terrible at science, the law confuses me, and I hate children.  Right.  I could have been a prostitute.  Classy though.  Like a geisha. 

Apparently, you're supposed to be thrilled.  Like screaming from the rooftops thrilled.  Exclamation marks thrilled.  I am a writer!  I write!  Yet, here I am.  Sans rooftop, sans exclamation, sans thrill.  My head hurts.  What a process.  This writing.  And all I can think is maybe I'm not so bad with beakers.  I could learn to argue.  I do love my nephews.  

It's painfully obvious what this is.  Life.  All of its unpleasantness is seeping through my pores.  I'm griping.  Let me be.  So instead of being proactive and writing what I should be, I'm doing what the kids are doing today.  It's a dear diary.  Online journal.  It ain't Shakespeare.  Iconic characters probably won't manifest in these words.  I'm only opening the gates for public humiliation.  You know, like the kids are doing these days.  More insecurities.  It's what I've always dreamed for myself.  So here goes.

Dear 26,

Studies (not ones you've researched, but ones you made up in your mind grapes) show that this is the age of reflection, the first of many crises.  So don't fret 26, you're not alone.  Yes, you're painfully obvious.  Painfully transparent.  Maybe even painfully dull, but you're assuredly not alone.  

Hopefully.

Sincerely,

Mostly Pilar

P.S.  Reminder.  You write because you breathe.  It's not easy, but challenge fashions growth.  You've got a headache.  Take an Excedrin.  Or drink a bottle of wine.