Monday, Monday. Can’t trust that day.

Mondays are especially hard for me for some reason. It’s like I have an illness, and Mondays are the days with the worst flare-ups or something. That sounds gross. And I don’t have any illness, I just hate the feeling of knowing I’m headed to a job I don’t really like with people who don’t really care about me. And the fact that I probably had a fun or relaxing weekend beforehand doesn’t help. Bluh.

I always end up looking up graduate schools, other jobs, and houses in far away locations in order to make Monday more bearable. I daydream.

I think, “I could get a job doing outdoorsy stuff at the National Park, and Sean and I could carpool to work.”

Or, “I could go to graduate school in Women’s Studies or get my M.A.T. and share my love of English with a younger generation.”

Or, “Sean and I could get a house in a suburb outside Atlanta for a fairly low price with little down payment.”

But the truth is, after daydreaming my Monday mornings away, I have to come to the reality that I still don’t really know what I want to do with my life. Monday just rubs it in.

I don’t know what I want. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m just a fallen leaf floating on the breeze, going where the wind goes. I can wax poetic about it, but I feel like I lack control in that aspect.

I need to get some perspective. I need somewhere to volunteer. I feel like I’m just working for a paycheck, not for a calling.

I lost my calling. I don’t know where I left it. I remember feeling like I had one once, but I don’t know what it feels like anymore.

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