It’s no secret that this has not been the awesomest of months.

I have worked way more than any young person should work. I have done very little else. Reading and movies and social life and fun and all the things that I actually like have all had their asses kicked by work. Which is sad, because work is, on my actual list of priorities, pretty low. However, it must remain high on my list of necessities, because I need money to live and read books and enjoy myself and educate myself.

I’ve endured the last month or so on the basis that things would get better when. I just had to get through this weekend, I told myself in the days leading up to the weekend.

Now I’m down to one job, but I still have the stress of moving and am working something like full time at the job I still have. I’m still tired and I still have no time for anything but work and packing. Things that I have to do. As opposed to things I want to do.

Part of me is comforted by the fact that I’m getting shit done on my own, taking responsibility for my life – though with a large parental loan, I don’t kid myself that I’m self-sufficient – I know I can take care of myself, that I can handle whatever’s thrown at me. But this is, I guess, the first time I’ve felt like I’m a grownup and it also scares the shit out of me.

I sound like such a brat.

Part of me is convinced that it will never get better. That my entire life will be eaten up by jobs that are fine ways of making money but that don’t really matter to me, by errands and chores, by GROWNUP RESPONSIBILITIES. Stop the world, I want to get off.