Terminal Draft

I wish that I didn’t know how to write. I set myself up for disappointment each time. A simple hobby has mutated into a laborious project that I see no end to. When I get really depressed, I picture myself in my late twenties— overweight, alone, clinging to friendships that only exist because I’m funny. My thighs wrapped in outdated flared jeans, my eyes hidden behind thick glasses, all thanks to the hours I’ve sacrificed at my desk— stupidly writing. 

I hate this hobby, and I hate how much I love itIf I gave it up, maybe I’d find a career that feels substantial, something my parents could proudly claim as mine. But they won’t live to see me at thirty, so the performance feels pointless.  Everyone in my family has cancer, and somehow, writing has become its own kind of disease— a sickness I can’t cure, but can’t live without.