As scattered as my life might seem to others (“What do you do?” “Oh, well, right now, I edit content for a general interest website; blog for a book website, a sex ed website, and a sex site; pitch freelance articles; work on book stuff; and sometimes teach yoga and meditation), I am actually very methodical when it comes to my career. I generally set a big goal ⇒ break that goal up into smaller steps ⇒ make my slow way toward completing all the steps ⇒ achieve my goal because I’m awesome ⇒ and then flail about because, suddenly, I don’t know what to do with myself.

The flailing sometimes involves binge eating and sometimes involves shopping and sometimes involves both but whatever. This is my process.

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After the end of one big project, and after the flailing, there is eventually a new beginning. And so I start all over again.

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There was a day last week when I felt extra murder-y.

It started early on. Like, within the first few minutes of waking up. After that, I spent my entire day with a permanent scowl on my face, my head throbbing, my fingers clenching, my skin hot. I had zero patience for anything and felt that, at any moment, the smallest thing could set me off and I’d be all:

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Life can often feel like a series of things you’re supposed to be doing: Go to college. Get a corporate job. Buy pumps and blazers. Work your way up the corporate ladder. Earn regular-yet-adequately-spaced-out promotions and raises. Get married and have babies. Eventually conquer the corporate world. Die.

Even when you step off that path and do something idiotic like become a freelance writer, there are things that are…well…expected of you. Mostly, they involve building the giant Jenga tower that is your platform, eventually becoming so cool that publishers pay you to write books on the regular, and then—I don’t know—ascending to a higher plane of coolness that involves a lot of literary readings and a-line dresses?

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