I am so unbelievably angry at myself right now. Like, a simmering, gut-wrenching kind of rage that I can’t quite place, but it feels like it’s aimed directly at my own stupid decisions. I just got back from my great-aunt’s funeral – some distant relative I’d met maybe twice, but my mom insisted it was “important to show respect” and “good for the family.” And honestly, the whole drive there, all I could think about was the gas money. Every mile felt like another ten dollars I didn’t really have, another ten dollars I could have put towards… anything else. Rent. Food. Literally anything that isn’t a four-hour round trip to a town I’ll never visit again. The service itself was exactly what you’d expect. Heavy air, hushed whispers, a lot of black clothes, and way too much perfume. My cousin, who I barely recognize these days, was up there giving this incredibly emotional eulogy about how Aunt Carol always made the best apple pie and volunteered at the library for twenty years. And I’m standing there, nodding along, trying to look appropriately sad and respectful, but all I can hear in my head is the Google Maps lady telling me to take the next exit. All I could think about was the traffic on the way back, the rush hour I was inevitably going to hit, and how much longer that would drag out this already pointless day. It wasn't even a conscious thought at first, more like background noise. But then the cousin’s voice started to crack, tears welling up, and I just felt this… this flicker of annoyance. Not at her, not really, but at the situation. At the expectation that I should be feeling something profound about a woman I didn’t know, when my own life feels like it’s constantly on the brink of falling apart. I just wanted to get out of there, get back to my laptop, try to hustle another client, another gig, something to keep the lights on for another week. The eulogy was lovely, I guess, but I was mentally calculating the optimal time to leave to beat the worst of the evening crawl. And then the SHAME hit. Like a physical punch. Because here I am, at a funeral, thinking about my commute and my bank account instead of the deceased or the grieving family. What kind of heartless monster does that? I’m supposed to be a good person, a caring person, but my brain is just… numbers and logistics and how many hours until I can crash. It’s infuriating. I hated myself in that moment, hated that this is what my life has become, that every decision, every interaction, every *funeral* is filtered through this lens of financial anxiety. It makes me feel so small, so petty, and so incredibly… ungrateful. Like, I should be grateful I even *have* a car to drive, a relative to mourn. But I just felt empty and furious. I’m back in my apartment now, the one I’m barely affording, scrolling through job boards, trying to find something, anything, that isn’t just a fleeting project. The funeral felt like a waste of time and money, and that thought, that cold, calculating thought, just makes me want to scream. I’m tired of feeling like this. Tired of the constant hustle, tired of feeling like I’m failing, and most of all, tired of myself for not being able to just… be present. To just be a normal human being at a damn funeral. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I thought it, or the fact that I’m admitting it here. Probably both.