I think maybe I’m doing everything wrong and I don’t know if this even counts as a confession because it’s just my life but I feel like I’m dying a little bit every day. It’s 2am and I’m sitting on my floor (the carpet is really gross and it smells like old dust) and I’m looking at my phone and I just want to throw it against the wall. I keep seeing all these people I went to school with—they’re all in the city now. They post these photos of their "studios" which are basically just cool lofts with giant windows and they’re always wearing black turtlenecks and drinking coffee that probably costs ten dollars. And I’m just here. I’m still in my bedroom with the same posters I had when I was twelve. My job is at The Print Spot which is right next to the Shell station and most days it doesn't even feel like I’m a designer or anything. I just fix typos on business cards for people who own like, lawn mowing businesses or septic tank companies. Yesterday this guy named Rick came in and he wanted a "badass" logo for his plumbing truck but he didn't want to pay the extra ten dollars for a custom drawing. He told me I should just "find a cool pipe on the Google" and use that. I sat there for two hours clicking my mouse and I felt like I was gonna throw up. I went to all those weekend classes and I practiced my hand-lettering until my fingers cramped up and now I’m just the girl who makes flyers for church bake sales. (I think Rick could tell I was upset because he asked if I was "having a girl day" and I just had to smile and say no). I saw Sarah posted a video of her internship today. She’s at this big agency in Chicago and she was showing off their "mood board" wall and everyone looked so happy and fast. Like they were actually making something that matters. I looked at her shoes and they were these shiny leather boots that probably cost more than my entire car (my car is a 2005 Honda and the muffler is literally held on with a coat hanger right now). I typed "so proud of you!!" on her photo but my hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped my phone. I’m not proud. I mean, I am, but I’m mostly just... I’m so jealous it feels like a hot rock is sitting in my chest. I feel like a bad person for even saying that. My mom thinks I’m doing the "smart thing" by staying here and saving money. We had this talk at the kitchen table last night—the light over the stove was doing that weird buzzing thing it does—and she told me she was so glad I didn't go off to some expensive school and end up in debt. She said I’m being "practical" and that the city is just full of people pretending to be important. I just nodded and ate my cereal. I didn't tell her that I’m not actually saving any money because I have to give her half my paycheck for the electric bill and groceries because she lost her overtime at the clinic. I’m not building a future, I’m just keeping the lights on in a house I hate. I used to draw all the time. I have these sketchbooks under my bed from like, two years ago and they’re full of all these big, weird ideas for posters and branding concepts. I used to think I was good. But now when I get home from the shop, I can’t even look at my tablet. The screen is too bright and my eyes feel like they’re full of sand from looking at CMYK colors all day. I tried to sketch something tonight and it just looked like a mess. I think the creative part of my brain is just... drying up? Like a sponge you leave behind the sink for too long. I don’t know if that makes sense. The worst part was this lady who came in today to get graduation invites for her daughter. Her daughter was a year behind me in school and she’s going to some big university for pre-med. The lady looked at me and said "Oh, I remember you! You were the little artist girl! Are you still doing your hobby?" and she said it so NICE. Like I was a five-year-old playing dress-up. I just stood there and felt my face get all hot and I said "Yeah, I'm the lead designer here" which is a TOTAL LIE because I’m the only person there besides the owner and I mostly just clear paper jams and wipe down the counters. I felt so small I thought I might actually disappear into the floor. I don't see a way out and that’s the part that really hurts to type. Every time I look at my bank account it’s just... it's almost zero. I feel like if I stay here another year, I’ll never leave. I’ll just become one of those people who stays in their hometown and talks about what they "almost" did. I’ll be the lady at the print shop who smells like ink and toner and knows exactly how to fix the Xerox machine but can’t remember what it feels like to have an actual idea. I’m only seventeen and I already feel like I’m finished. Like the book is already closed and I’m just reading the fine print at the bottom. Sometimes I wish I wasn't an "artist" at all. I wish I liked normal things and didn't care about things like kerning or color theory or whatever. It would be so much easier to just be happy with a job at the grocery store and a house down the street from my mom. But I’m stuck in this middle part. I’m too poor for the city and I’m too... I don't know, "different" for this town? And I’m just... nothing. I’m sitting here crying over a stupid logo for a plumber named Rick and I feel like I’m suffocating. I hate myself for being so weak. I really do. (I hope no one I know ever finds this).