I hate where I live, I have one friend (American!), I haven’t seen my boyfriend in 75 days (which means I haven’t touched a man in 75 days), I have yet to find a job that pays more than £40 a week, I sincerely regret my spontaneous haircut, and the girl who lives next to me slams her door at four in the morning, every morning, and she isn’t Gwen Stefani so I’m not ok with it. Hence: I have absolutely zero motivation whatsoever to do anything productive with my life.
I’ve always been lazy, but I got through life at a normal pace. Now I have no homework assignments and I haven’t written an essay since May, but I somehow have to get one done this week. It’ll get done, but probably last minute. That is what happened in college anyway.
The point is that I am in grad school in London and my parents paid tons of money for this and all I do is watch TV and mope in my bed. Also I spend a lot of money on clothes and makeup and food.
Tonight I walked Max, the sweet little dachshund who is my only source of income at the moment (see the £40 above), through Islington and Pentonville and peeked into people’s homes in the darkness. London overwhelms me with realizations of wealth every day. New York City wealth is nothing compared to this. There are far more people, far more wealthy people, and far more expensive homes here. Seemingly average families live in million pound townhouses ALL OVER THE PLACE. With an Anthropology of Food degree, I probably can’t ever expect to live in a place like that, unless I marry someone wealthy. But this my future, and you never can tell what will happen.
My parents on the other hand will definitely never experience this life. Unless I become a billionaire overnight, it seems to me they will forever be living with very little, just so I can have more. Here is where the guilt sets in.
I am unhappier than I have ever been in my entire life, at a time when I should be doing the best I can to be successful to make all of that worth it. I have no motivation to do so. This is one of those moments where it’s up to be to pick myself up and do things. Actually write a blog post. Read a journal article. Write the paper you decided on your own that you would write this week, even though it isn’t due for weeks. If I just do it, things will be ok.
I think it’s a lack of an obvious future that scares me. My friend who was a computer science major moved to San Francisco, works at Twitter, suddenly has a ton of friends, a job he loves that pays tons of money, and a new girlfriend. That’s just too easy. It’s never been that easy for anyone in my family. Perhaps it’s the Hungarian curse. It’s just that even if I do write this essay, I don’t really know what I’ll do with this degree. London is rejecting me like a cat coughing up hairballs, over and over again they are there, but they are never wanted. It seems I have no viable skills for the job market, and surely this degree won’t get me closer. What on earth will I do.
As I listen to the obnoxious cackling of the girl who lives two doors down from me in this lifeless, friendless pod, I’m realizing this is going on significantly too long, but in all likelihood no one reads it anyway and by posting I only make myself feel productive, even though it’s 10:00pm and I haven’t done a single thing I should have today. I’ve really got to get out of this city.