I truly mean that.  I hate money.  I hate that I never seem to have enough of it.  I hate the joy I feel when my direct deposit hits (I know that’s confusing but stay with me).  I hate that everyone on social media seems to be so very wealthy and that I am apparently the only person struggling out here.  I hate that every time I get a little check, it goes almost as quickly as it comes.  I also hate that life constantly takes money.  Life is just expensive for no good reason.  I find myself spending some amount of money every damn day and I am just over it.


Each month I make a list of goals and things to do.  Kind of like a new years resolution check in each month.  Each time I tell myself I’m going to spend less and eat better, and each month I fail miserably.  I look at my debit account in horror and disbelief and ask myself why? Like how did this happen again?  If I didn’t know any better I could swear I have an alter ego like in the book Addicted by Zane, and this other person just comes out and spends all of my damn money on food.  In my defense cooking here is such a hassle, but that’s another topic for another post.


I am in a constant state of “I need to get my shit together.”  This becomes increasingly more difficult because I have people from all angles telling me that I should just give up and some days I think those people are right.  Some days I wonder: is this how a 27 year old woman should be living?  Shouldn’t things be better and more in order?  Shouldn’t things be more stable?  I just have these moments where I feel like I suck at this whole adult thing.  I feel so much pressure to be financially stable, in a relationship, and just have things figured out in general.  Everyone says these are the years where you figure all that stuff out, just relax blah blah blah.  But it’s hard to relax when you want so much and feel like you have so little. I hate feeling that way, because despite my hardships I have much more than most of the people I pass by everyday.  How dare I complain when at least I have a home to go to at night and a job to go to everyday?  I feel silly for complaining when I pass by these mothers panhandling to feed their children.  How dare I not be thankful?

But even still when I get to Brooklyn every evening and I lay in my bed alone I am haunted by my goals.  They keep me up.  They give me anxiety.  They bring me to tears, because I am fighting for them everyday, yet it seems like they’re running from me, and I don’t know how to catch up.  My goals and I are like unrequited lovers.  I want them so bad but it’s like they don’t think I’m worthy yet, and this feeling gets overwhelming and consuming.  What brought about this latest series of anxious thoughts?  Well I’ll tell you…