I think somewhere along the way I lost myself. It was about the time that I quit dating and quit working. Maybe five-seven years ago? I gave up. I let life convince me that I had no more pull left in me. I lost the excitement of the unknown. I resigned myself to living. But not fully living, perhaps "existing" is the word. It was the time I realized that, no matter how much I didn't want it to, money mattered. That I would truly starve if I didn't do "something." And, in that panic, I did nothing. I still do nothing. I haven't contributed to the world in years. I am the worst. What I have to contribute is not about money. I am about ideas. I am an ideal. Ideals don't pay. I hate PB&J, vegetable soup made from frozen vegetables and egg whites on toast. I want real food. I want a bed that I didn't buy from a bedbug-ridden bodega on Broadway. I want clothes that I didn't get free at some stupid party. I want to be inspired and earn a living. That is not happening for me. I hope someone reads this years down the road and I am super accomplished. I hope they see that every "artist" struggles. I hope that day comes. Why do I think it won't?

The Issue

Finally watched September Issue and all I really got from it was that, even if you're Anna Wintour, you'll still never be good enough and things will still fall terribly, horribly apart at the worst possible moment. Is there no hope for sanity? What of this elusive concept they call 'happiness'? Does life just suck? For everyone? Always?

xoxo,
Tiffany for a Stress-Free Tomorrow