That there, that's not me
Amber, I'm with you in misery, if not physically.

Everything I touch shocks me. Thick, robust shocks that punish my nerve endings. My skin is itchy from the dry air and my neglect (No time to shave with a dull razor and then wince as the lotion stings every nicked inch). My face is breaking out from the stress. And the PMS. Oh, the PMS. My abdomen is in knots. And my teeth ache from these idiotic whitening strips I've used for two whole days. I can barely even chew.

I am in a total rut already. My days are hurried and frantic. My time with Phil is spent sleeping. I don't have mornings. I eat junk food and fast food because I can't cook and wouldn't have the time to anyway. I gulp down soda after soda to try and keep my energy level steady. It's becoming more and more clear that this fabled future I'm working for is a crock. For one, it's not guaranteed. A pissed off alien race or angry/crazy nuclear scientist could make quick work of this big rock. For two, I haven't done anything I really wanted to do while in college. I can't afford to travel, and every spare moment I wanted to spend culturing myself is spent working so I can pay the rent/cable/electric/water/internet/phone/etc. Is this vicious cycle making me appreciate hard work, or is it making me bitter and apathetic about the beauty of living? Yeah, there's beauty out there, all right, but I don't have time to fucking go see it. Or even take pictures to put inside my cubicle when I finally enter that bastion of the American dream -- the wonderful world of work.