Hour 11: to myself age 28
Look, hon, I know you’re exhausted
from 55-hour weeks leading to the unknown
from miles of linoleum halls in chafing
from snow-bound days and long, lonely
from 2,000 miles with two cats meowling
You’re weary and aching and so grateful to be going to Texas you could eat the dirt at the state line if you had some barbecue sauce.
But please, please, please don’t give away the long green witchy Holy Clothing dress (that you paid a good chunk of student loan money for) because someone thinks it’s unprofessional.
Please don’t let anyone convince you to donate the mixtapes you made in kindergarten covered in your happy kid writing and featuring Living on a Prayer at least three times.
And please, please don’t let anyone tell you that your pain isn’t real, that you need to suck it up. Or that you’re making it up. Don’t become convinced you’re only worth your job title and hide in a tiny apartment from unemployment shame.
Don’t stop dancing just because you’re the only one doing it.
Find yourself people who want to dance.
There you’ll learn everything you need to know.