Confessions

Fall nights, torturing the dog.

Thought I would check in! I've been consumed by trying to write and work (eh) and settling into Quincy (no one told me the downtown is a heroin den but I sure do like our really cute townhouse!) and lastly, class. Still.

I've been finishing my degree at a glacier pace and because of this, any friendships I formed in the early days are gone. I'm left sitting in a class with absolutely nothing in common with the people around me ("I'm almost 23 and my mom will not stop monitoring my spending!") This semester I'm awkwardly close in age to the instructor and I can't help thinking,  me feel like a weirdo.  

I got feedback of the ebook project and many of my sneaking suspicions about what sucked and what didn't were verified in some areas, while made painfully obvious in others.

Sort of related but not at all: As I've been struggling to write over the last few months I've adopted an unfounded but nevertheless deep-seated hatred of Lena Dunham. I fawn over articles ridiculing her. I hate-read articles praising her.  I know I'm jealous but I don't find her to be all that interesting or thought-provoking. Jon Stewart fell all over himself when all I could see was a bland, awkward guest. She's been written about over 300 times by The New York Times. She's infiltrated The New Yorker, writing essays about OCD and her countless NYC therapists and everything, everything she spews is treated as some sordid confession. She is not the voice of my generation. She speaks for a very small, privileged sliver of our generation.

Okay, glad I got that out! Back to my desk job and my home-brought pulled pork...

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