Oh if I could only find the time, the energy, the mental prowess, to write. Something...anything. I can't even write a decent email anymore. I no longer have anything interesting whatsoever to say. According to some people, I never did have anything interesting to say, but I know those people (and you know who you are) were really just jealous of my eloquence and wit. So ha.

You have nothing to be jealous of anymore, however, as both the eloquence and wit have disappeared.

Just go read the news, it's much better than this. And then come back and tell me what's happening in the world, as I no longer pay any attention. Yeah, theeeeanks.

I'd give my big toe to get out of going to work today. These 11 hour days are kicking my arse to hell and back, and I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

I interviewed for an Editorial Assistant position yesterday. This is the job I moved here for, this is the company I moved here to work with, I want it so badly it's like an itch somewhere deep in my brain that I can't scratch, and I think I really fucked up the the interview. Oy. I am quite possibly the world's worst interviewee. I'm going to be a waitress forever, I can feel it.

Shoot me.

I think I realized why I feel so at home in Boston, why I loved it almost instantly. Boston clings as tenaciously to its history as I do to mine. It feeds on its history, it obsesses over its history, it seizes every opportunity to talk about its history and point out significant features and events. History settles over the landscape of Boston like a fine, golden dust. Things that are happening right now in Boston are already history; you can almost hear the city figuring out how it's going to tell the story later on, in the future.

I am the same way. Me and Boston, we're like soulmates.

I work way too much. Way, way too much. And when I'm not at work I'm usually too tired to do much of anything besides sleep. I haven't written anything in I don't even know how long, and it's taking me over two weeks to read one measly book (About Town: The New Yorker and the World it Made), which is unprecedented. But by some kind of blessed miracle, I have tomorrow off. ('Yes,' most of you are probably thinking 'of course she does, it's the 4th of July.' You've obviously never worked in the food service industry.)

I turn 24 on Sunday. Half of the time I feel like I'm still 13. The other half, I feel 80. Does anyone ever feel like they are the age they are most of the time? Is it some kind of weird generational glitch that people my age feel like it's impossible for us to grow up? And is it ok for me to hate all those people who were published in The New Yorker by the time they were my age?

I'm starting to doubt that I'll ever be a writer. I guess I'm starting to doubt a lot of things. Like my sanity.

But to answer my own pondering non-question of the last post: I love Boston. I remembered it the minute I got on the train coming back from the airport. I don't really know why, but I love Boston intensely. Is that strange?

Hm. I still need more coffee.