This is not my summer.

I am once again a victim of my own whimsical and unrealistic expectations.

Not to say that I’m not not having fun– because I’m not having fun. But that has little to do with anyone else, or even me for that matter. I blame it all on my own backward sense of self-worth and the sea of neuroses that I’m swimming in lately. I mean, not having a job, feeling physically unappealing and struggling to see how I’m ever going to support the whimsical and unrealistic big-boy life that I know I deserve, isn’t such a big deal, right?

Right?

I’m a mess. Socially awkward in a way that brings me back to the days when I transitioned from apple-faced, sexually repressed homeschooled goon to the quick witted, yet equally sexually dysfunctional young adult. People used to find me funny and interesting, right? I’m not making that up, am I? Because lately I’m feeling about as interesting as those little pieces of garnish on the side of your plate at fancy restaurants. They do nothing. Nothing!

And now I do nothing. Nothing.

I’ve gone from planning parties and drinking until I can’t feel my ankles to sitting in my bed re-watching entire seasons of 30 Rock, while bits of hummus fall out of my useless mouth.

I have to get out of this funk.

Advertisement