Whining

I thought that since I'm having a small crisis (is there such a thing?) that I should write about it rather than continue drinking on a Monday night and staring like a drone into the TV screen.

Had a talk with the director at the firm today. She asked me what my plans were. Did I want to stay. I hedged and asked if she had any feedback for me because I certainly hadn't gotten any from any of the attorneys. She said it was all good feedback, but obviously my knowledge of California civil procedure was lacking, but they expected that and were willing to train me. In fact, they wanted to hire me if I wanted to stay.

I don't know if I want to stay. Last week I was miserable and I haven't been happy but about two days that I've been there.

The big problem here is that I don't want to do what I do for a living anymore.

The biggest problem is that I can't make a living doing what I love.

I don't think I can keep lying to myself anymore, telling myself, someday, you'll be writing full-time and you won't have to do this shit anymore. You won't have to do this shit for much longer. Now I don't believe me anymore because I've just been dreaming, thinking some day, some day, some day...

There's really nothing else that makes me happy, day in and day out, like writing. What's going to pay the bills? Five years of paralegal experience, a certificate and Bachelor's degree, that's what pays the bills. And I fucking hate it.

Living in this town compounds the problem. It's just right there. That southern California disillusionment mixed with the haze and the spindly palms and the warm sun and the dashed dreams of thousands spilled out on the sidewalks that I walk on every day.

What do you do?

You go into the director's office the next day, to follow-up on the the previous day's conversation, and you say you want to stay, and you tell yourself, it's just right there, some day, you won't have to do this shit anymore.

Or, I'm honest and I say, no, I don't want to stay, I don't think I want to do this anymore...and then I'm out. Walking home, back down the sidewalk, down into the metro, to come home to a little fuzzy dog that will be overjoyed to see me, and I'll call the recruiter and beg for anything she can scrape together pronto, because the bills, the rent, and food. And with any luck, I'll end up in the same situation, or worse, someplace I'll have to commute to, only to be miserable there too, more so...and then what?

Third scenario...I walk down to the XXX place on the Blvd. and see what kind of money men will stuff into my brand-new red G-string that I'll have to purchase...shit. I already have a rapidly deteriorating respect for men, why make it worse...

Sometimes disillusionment can be nice.