morning

You’re standing above the stove watching butter melt. Twenty-four-years-old and still dealing with Keystone and Jager hangovers, which you promised yourself you’d stop doing after college. Crack two eggs into the pan. Take a giant drink from the latte you bought yourself this morning . It was supposed to make you feel better about sleeping with that boy you promised yourself you’d never sleep with again. It’s not working. Think about everything you need to do today. Laundry, go to the gym (probably not), shower. There are a few emails you need to respond to. They’re probably all rejection emails, a few more “we’re sorry but we’re unable to offer you a position at this time,” to add to your sad inbox. There are more emails from Chipotle thanking you for your order than you’d like to admit. Mild panic sets in. Take a sip of your latte. It’s cold by now. Flip your eggs. Wonder where the last eight years of your life went. You were sixteen hanging out with your crush at Denny’s, then you were twenty-two and fresh out of a failed three-and-a-half year relationship with the boy who promised to make you his wife. Twenty-three and unemployed and asking your parents to move back in with them. Another thing you promised yourself you’d never do. Blame your failures on them for not forcing you to study something practical like engineering or finance. Journalism was a mistake. Wonder if you can get one more wear out of your bartending uniform before you need to wash it again. Fuck. Turn off the stove and transfer your eggs to a paper plate. Sit down on the couch and open your Macbook. You’ve been marathon-watching HIMYM on your ex-boyfriend’s Netflix account. Six seasons down in one week, time you know you should have used to do something else. Anything else. There are 36 tabs open with jobs you promised yourself you’d apply for today. Take a deep breath. Minimize the window. Go to season 7, episode 4. Breathe out. You’re gonna be alright.