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.