Twenty-eight

I want to quit my job. I'm tired. It's exhausting, stressful, and no longer worth it.

1.       I work insane hours because there's too much work and I'm so not in the fucking mood to be efficient about handling it all, which makes me slower.

2.       The clients are demanding shits who don't know what they want but want everything yesterday. Of course, when I do meet their insane deadlines they have the audacity to demand more and show no appreciation whatsoever.

3.       I'm burnt out and don't have the capacity to be creative to write great copy anymore. My job has made me hate writing. I don't want to write, period.

4.       I struggle to get out of bed in the morning because I don't want to face my CEO (with her fucking progress reports and guilt-inducing questions) or my deadlines or my coworkers (who always need stuff from me).

5.       I have neither a social life nor the will to socialize because of my insane hours and mental crippling.

6.       I feel like I haven't lived because I'm always either at the office or working from home, or vegetating in bed to recover from the workweek.

7.       I can't seem to find anyone qualified to hire and help with the workload, and so I'm doomed to forever deal with the same shitty situation.

8.       Apparently if I worked elsewhere I'd be getting paid more (though money at this point isn’t the issue).

9.       I'm starting to do a crap job at everything and it's killing me. I used to take so much pride in doing a job well. It's what helped me reach so far despite my lack of a university degree. It's what made my reputation. I'm about to lose it all because I can't bring myself to meet client deadlines or deliver on their expectations, or just even meet my own standards.

10.   I'm lying to cover my ass and I hate myself for it, because what kind of a functioning adult has to lie to make up for needless negligence?

I really, really want to quit, but I also want to travel to Spain in October and I need the money to do that, so I won't quit now. I'll quit in January 2015 once I've managed to save up after spending everything in Spain. Until then, it's slow death.  

Twenty-three

Attempt no. x. I have blocked my favorite slash sites. While slash itself is not to blame for my destructive binges of vegetative procrastination comas, it is my trigger. I remain dubious about my chances of success; my track record is not encouraging. Must replace slash with other, less addictive, pastimes. My apartment still needs a lot of work. My entire life needs a lot of work. 

This must be how drug addicts feel, but the watered down version. 

Sixteen

I'm having a hard time getting up and being productive today. It's already 11:30am and so far I've had a sloppy, sad excuse of a turkey sandwich, fed the flat mate, used the bathroom, and read a lot of slash. I attempted sweeping the living room, but stopped halfway through in favor of reading more slash.

Feel like going back to sleep. Think I will. I can be productive afterwards.

Fifteen

I love weekends, I love being able to do nothing, be useless, and just de-stress. Nothing beats knowing that you don't have to do anything if you don't feel like it. It's… liberating. Except that since I've moved out I've started feeling guilty about these stints. I have things that need to get done, commitments that have to be met, and projects that I want to get started. That's good, right? I'm becoming a real human being, not a worthless blob. So even though today's Friday and I usually – pre moving out – dedicated this day to the pursuit of instant gratification, now I'm worried about getting my apartment cleaned, myself groomed, the favors I'd promised my friends done. Eh.