This is you 23 years young, wondering where the time went between now and age 18, when you knew exactly who you were and exactly how everything should be.
You're 15 weeks away from graduating, and you can't help but wonder whether you should have pursued a journalism degree rather than psychology. The latter seemed more practical. As you stir kinky-shaped pasta and sip a questionably large glass of Trader Joe's 2-Buck-Chuck (which you justify as healthy, because you don't remember reading a specific serving size in the studies citing "one glass of red wine per day" as healthy), you realize that this is not the Cosmo-inspired fantasy you had envisioned for your 20's.
There is no red silk robe, no Victoria's Secret kitten heels with the black feathery poof at the tips that you were supposed to strut around in (because they don't even sell those shoes anymore, dammit), passionately typing your deepest thoughts on your vintage typewriter (that you never ended up buying) as you pranced around your apartment listening to jazz, or classical music, or what the fuck ever. No, you lacked the courage to pursue journalism because you feared it was a dying industry, and that a degree in creative writing—your true passion—would amount to nothing.
There is no handful of men that you're dating, because you're stuck on only one in this gloomy little (Nordstrom-deprived) town, and you haven't found any other remotely-romantic distractions worth engaging in.
You already own one cat, which makes you exactly one step closer to becoming a cat woman.
The highlights of today, a day you've deemed worth taking off of your monotonous "student research" job (which entails calling an excessive amount of professionals and getting hung up on much too much), have been a 3 hour phone conversation with your mother, and a 2 hour phone conversation with your best friend—who, of course, has moved to LA. The only somewhat demolished vegan apple fritter donut in the freezer is calling you. Beckoning you.
Even your shrink has told you, in much more delicate words, that perhaps you should be less of an anti-social fuck.
It's true, and there are a few Eugene friends you dearly miss, but you can't quite work up the effort to see them. You just have too many things you were supposed to accomplish today, that you have not, that make you feel unworthy of anyone's company but your own.
After all, you were supposed to have written a novel by now. A screenplay, at least. Your ideas haunt you and you feel guilty for not putting them on paper, yet you feel tremendous anxiety, anticipating whether they will come out just right. Whether you can accurately, articulately, illustrate the beautiful images and scenes constantly unraveling in your mind.
Maybe to be successful, you are supposed to be more like your brother. Maybe you should be a little more focused on a beans-and-rice diet and a little less satiated by your sweet-tooth and penchant for shoes.
Maybe you're actually destined to pursue the whole starving artist persona, to kill two birds with one stone (not that you advocate unnecessary killing of any kind).
You have somehow, accidentally constructed writer's block and are unsure of exactly how to chip away at this self-inflicted destruction. Piece by piece, or one dynamite explosion? And how, exactly?
Your only solution, for now, at least: more wine, less whine.