It’s too much. All the extras. The work stuff. The family stuff. The internal existential crisis stuff.
All I wanted to do was write and read. Have some peace and fucking quiet. Some good music. A couple of beers or a nice glass of wine, maybe an old fashioned, done up right.
I want time alone with my family, relaxing. I want Saturdays around the pool and Sundays at the theatre.
I want quiet mornings. I want a workday that ends at a particular time, not “you’re salaried, so whenever”.
Every morning, I wake with palpitations. Every. Single. Morning.
I have so much left to do, but at this rate, they’re going to kill me first.