7/21/2026

16 days until my 33rd birthday, and it feels like i've wasted what is probably half of my life. i don't expect to live long. 65 at best. although my both of my parents have made it longer than i expected, longer than their own parents, so maybe my future is a little brighter.

but i feel like the reaper is following me. with my health issues, a lack of good health insurance, the instability of the country, and the threat of civil and international war, i genuinely worry i might not make it to 65. i want to be around for as long as i can for my daughter. i want to make a name for myself while i'm alive. i want my art and writing to be remembered.

maybe that's the bullshit american exceptionalism i grew up on talking, with a hint of modern fast fame and influencer culture thrown in. i know it's not realistic. i know that, realistically, i'll be lucky to have a handful of dedicated followers or fans, and i should be happy with that. but i'm a child of the 90s. we were told that doing good at one thing in second grade meant we were expected to become doctors, lawyers, astronauts, screenplay writers, executives, etc., in adulthood. and now i feel like a shameful failure for still working just above minimum wage and not being a haughty world famous arist whose art rich people use to launder money.

i wish i could slow down, shut my brain off, live in the moment. i've been trying to read more, but my brain won't cooperate. one or two pages in and i can't sit still or conentrate. how am i supposed to write if i can't read? same goes for drawing. i have a drawing that i started in 2019 that i've slowly been adding to over seven years, and it's nowhere near finished. maybe it's the subject matter. it was connected to someone i no longer vibe with. i feel like i should scrap it, but something isn't letting me.

i had an entire list of things i wanted to get done and the deadline to finish them. one was finish a story by the end of august. it's almost august. it's still doable, right? if i get this story done by the last day of august, i won't be a failure. i won't have wasted my life.

why can't i just get my shit together?