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I hate being a work in progress.
I have this feeling that I’m supposed to be some kind of complete human being already.
Like, the vast majority of people my age have their shit together. They aren’t relying on the grace of others. They aren’t trying to pull together a side hustle or thinking about going back to college. They aren’t trying to write a novel that will impress a literary agent, an acquisitions editor, a publishing house, a public that’s already inundated with more books than they can possibly ever read.
They’ve got their shit together.
It feels like the rest of the world falls into two camps.
First are the fabulous people.
They might be celebrities, or they might just be filthy stinking rich. These are people who have a brand, who have sixteen trillion followers across social media, who unironically refer to themselves as “influencers™”
(Sidebar: if you ever want me to punch you in the teeth, refer to yourself as an influencer in my hearing. I hate that word so fucking much. An influencer. The word grates against my ears. The sheer pretension. Like you deserve product endorsements and a goddamn ticket to the Met Gala and the White House Correspondents Dinner just because you have 16 million Twitter followers for doing something, maybe, I…
