weekly existential crises

Beginning to realize that my future career should have been determined before I even knew what college to go. Always a late bloomer. More of a “depends on the current mood” type of gal. Never considered my “future” as a big spectacle. But here I am, watching the end of Escape to New York, randomly chosen from my current boredom and existential anxiety. A Jon Carpenter film though, always a plus. Deciding what internship to apply to was just a dart in the dark, pretty much whichever job wanted to give me an interview. No. What I really want to do is watch and analyze movies. White or black. Scary or funny. Childish or NC 17. Alternatively, I would have loved to profile some serial killers or go into forensics. But I’m not good in science nor math. I should have stayed pre-med. I should have attempted chemistry and calculus. Maybe if I motivated myself enough, I could have pulled through. HA. Who am I kidding? I’m not even motivated enough to get the tv remote two feet away from me. What I am good at is sleeping and disrupting my sleep pattern until I become nocturnal. 
But what am I really good at? Copying and pasting people’s words? Developing an obsession with a character or film? What kind of career can I get when I can’t even talk to people. As my social anxiety rises, my common sense diminishes. Jealousy was never my forte but when I think about my ex friends who have gone off and studied what I would have done anything for, then I’m a little pissed. She wouldn’t even have gotten into it if I never introduced it to her. But I have cinema studies. With a goal of somehow becoming rich and famous through a miracle that will follow my minoring in cinema studies, I’ll get to the top. After all, I did choose New York University for the celebrity and rich white people surroundings. Was that enough? Still at home, with my parents, contemplating what they would think of my choices, I become a dysfunctional mutated insect, without wings or any sense of direction. Just another drone. A working bee. But am I working? Every day seems like wasted. Like a blooming flower by day. And a rotten dead leaf by night. I even suck at describing my life.
I’m such a debbie downer. Things have worked out for me in the past because I don’t have high expectations. I never worried until now. Things seem so easy when people finally become successful. It seems so quick and painless. Maybe because they do that “work hard, play hard” routine. I was never allowed to play. Double standards and general social anxiety have destroyed most of my chances. Now I’m in a rut wondering what the hell to do with this degree I studying for. 

Maybe things will work out in the end. Or maybe I’m just not doing what I need to be doing.


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