Dear Life, Please Stop Over Working Me Like A Prostitute

I can still remember three months ago, hanging out with my one of my best friend, sitting on her boyfriend’s couch, sun beating down on my shoulders, drinking a Budweiser, watching an old episode of The Simpsons, bragging about how great my sex life was, not having a care in the world. What happened to those days?

I’m currently working over 40 hours a week between three jobs (the struggle is real) with no prospects in the foreseeable future. I’m also being forced to work on Thanksgiving, and I’m not allowed to have any vacation time until next year. My point is that you never know when you feel like an adult until one day, your only day off is during the middle of the week, you’re starving from not having the time to eat, have too many errands to make, and somehow look at graduate schools and job applications. Turning 24 has faced some challenges, so I wrote a poem about some of the stresses I’ve got going on.

A month ago was my birthday,

of delightful whisky shots, confidence in kissing a stranger, moving forward from 23,

none of that matters, not today.

My crime is considered prostitution; shameful, guilty, even slutty.

What was I thinking? How can I possibly change?

Sure, I have things to get me by, there’s just damaged goods.

Still knowing how I’m responsible for the waste, what I’ve caused

into my misery; the back of my mind.

Wishing I knew better than taking those for granted off their guard.

Wishing you could get to know me now–the warrior from the wide eyed girl.

I don’t fail three times.

I only get better at my job.

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