R-E-J-E-C-T-E-D. Everywhere I turn, it seems that I am not good enough. Not good enough for Chipotle, and certainly not good enough for the UN. Crushed in my own hypocrisy and forever chasing acceptance from a man that I despise. I wonder when this feeling of inadequacy will go away. I know they say that "comparison is the thief of joy," but one mistake has left me scooping salad for 17.50/hr, which barely covers my growing financial burden of increased rent and lack of health insurance. I am ashamed and scared that this is all I will accomplish and that my time for excellence has passed and there is no amount of premade margarita mixture to numb that feeling, well, not for me. I don't know if I did the right thing by packing everything up and studying human trafficking in Amsterdam, but as the days grow longer and the nights suffocate me in their darkness, I feel like a fool, and the broken glasses from my time in Paris are now covered in superglue wrapped in bitterness that I didn't enjoy my time enough, but how can you enjoy your time when you're so strapped for cash? Sometimes, I wonder if I'm one of those people not meant to be rich because struggle seems to be ingrained in my DNA. With struggle comes the ability to survive on nothing, but it also comes with a boatload of resentment, and no, I will not try praying, but I can try believing in myself. Though it seems impossible now as I watch those in my graduating class zoom past me. I have grown complicit in my mundane life; the same routine has driven me to the brink of insanity, but at least I am not pregnant.
As the world burns beneath my feet, I am fortunate enough to afford new shoes to numb the pain.
