I really don’t want to be doing this.
I don’t want to be studying for two more years so I can get a higher paying job.
It’s one of these moments again where I remember that all I want to do is open a haven of good coffee, used books, and local art, and/or start it all over again and become a potter or a linguist.
I don’t care about those high-power jobs lurking in the future. I don’t mind being broke. I just want to revel in the simple things.
And right now, I am, honestly, perfectly, happy.
I like living in my tiny apartment with three other women, with light switches and outlets and thermostats all hung at crooked angles, cranking the heat down in the winter to save electricity and walking around wrapped in my blanket toga.
I’ve got a kettle for my tea, a press for my coffee, and loads of British TV on youtube. I’m unsure what else I could need.
I’m worried that my aspirations for the future will be far below my pay grade, and I’m worried that I’ll mind.
It might just be one of those cold days where drinking tea seems like the world’s best occupation, and the 2×4 of reality will hit me upside the head tomorrow.
In other news, I have just burned a second batch of rice.