 When I decided to do this year of service in Wilmington, I looked at it as a chance to get away and get my life together so that I could pursue my real dreams when I returned to Philly. The plan was this: save up money for an apartment, build up my writing portfolio by writing things other than poetry, and start applying for publishing/editing/writing jobs four months before the end of my service year in June. I’ve done a pretty great job so far. My savings account is looking nice and I started writing consistently on this blog plus I started an interview series on Apiary Magazine. March marks the fourth month before my year of service is up and since the beginning of this month, I’ve been applying to jobs like my life depends on it.
Here’s why I decided to stop.
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My first roommate was a weirdo. She was actually a good roommate though, probably the only one of the many roommates I’ve had over the years that I actually fucks with. We shared a double in the least expensive residence hall during the first semester of our freshman year of college. The room was so small, if we were each laying on our beds (which were on opposite sides of the room) and outstretched our arms, we could’ve held hands. However, somehow we managed to not be tripping over each other.
Last week I secretly turned 23 and it was pretty great. I changed the privacy settings on my Facebook so that my birthday isn’t visible, I didn’t post anything on my other social medias, and I didn’t tell any of my coworkers (well, I tried not to. A few of them found out). For those who did end up finding out though, the question became, why don’t I want to celebrate my birthday? Here are my reasons.
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