So I'll just go ahead and say it. I was happy with where I was and what I was doing about a week ago. And then, just like that, I went home to eat lunch with my parents and it was completely dissolved. Happiness, gone. How does that happen? When I was younger, I would spend all of my energy not caring about my parents' opinions. When did that change?

I really tried hard to overcome this post-college shit-storm the past few months. Most of the time, I was depressed, but numbed it with stuff. In the past month and a half though, I felt that I had found my footing. I was practicing yoga, baking at work, going to bed by 10 and waking up by 5. I had started to read and write. I could wear my beloved skinny blacks again. I was feeling pretty good. And then all of a sudden. Shitstorm. Sunday. The day I spent in LA, the day that was supposed to be a golden escape from all things San Diego. And there literally was a storm. That probably was a contributing factor. I hadn't done yoga that day, and I ate shit food to make myself feel better, which I hadn't done in a long time, and that made me feel even worse, and I spent the entire day in my head, asking myself over and over again if I was actually a dumb person. If I was actually dumb as a stump, if I would actually go anywhere in life, if I really, truly, knew what I wanted to do in life. If I could even accomplish anything. Not going to yoga that day didn't help at all of course, because I was irrationally asking myself since I hadn't gone that day, how many more days would I skip until I eventually would just quit, like I did with everything else? And the usual conversation would take place in my head: Okay, start with the things I like. What do I like to do? Hell if I know. I kind of like yoga right now, but even that is hard to like most days. I guess I like baking, but do I like it enough to get myself in $50,000 of debt? I mean, I guess I like writing. But do I feel like I would die without it? Am I actually passionate about anything? Am I just a fraud? I actually have no interests. I am actually a stupid, mediocre, good-for-nothing. I have failed and I am only 24. I have no direction, I have no passion, I have nothing. Nothing that I wish I had. I am mediocre. What the fuck am I still doing here? Maybe I'll die young. Maybe I'm only here for a little while longer.

And it went on and on like that for a while.

It's also disturbing to me that I have trouble talking to people about the things that I'm feeling, but I have no problem writing about it on my blog and publishing it for the world, well the few that know about my blog, to see. Maybe it isn't disturbing in this day and age. A blog is a personal space, anyway. Personal and public, just like conversations are. And since not many of you know about this blog, it's like a conversation, right?

Anyway, I spent the day yesterday researching and planning culinary school. It ultimately is what I want to do after all. There's a reason why I've been working in cafes as long as I have. I'm actually good at it. And I actually enjoy it most of the time. I can't imagine myself working in a cubicle. I couldn't even handle a receptionist job for longer than a week. I felt that I would literally wither up and die, or develop an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, if I stuck around that godforsaken place. To that end, I guess I'm pretty passionate. I know I'm really passionate about things I hate. But what about the things I like? Hell if I know. Mandy wrote a blog post recently about being able to identify problems real well and not knowing how to go about fixing them. I feel the same exact way.

I've been reading some of my old journal entries, and three years ago, I wrote a letter to a friend asking him to tell me who I am because I had no idea. I feel like I'm in the same place.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I am not an academic. So grad school is out of the picture for sure. It would just be a waste of money, just like a four-year college was for me. Literature/writing, what a joke. I started paying off my loans this month, and I wonder if any post-college graduate is as depressed as I am for paying off an education that I feel like I could've acquired just by spending 8 hours in a public library every goddamn day. There were gems in the four years, certainly, but a couple thousand dollars worth of gems?

Well, it looks like I'm going to New York in March, at the very least, to figure out if the rest of my life will revolve around all things culinary.

I have so much to figure out. Shit.

And I just made a batter for a loaf of bread. That's right, batter. So it can't be as hard as making actual bread, which I'm actually afraid of. And the dough isn't rising. It's been three hours, and I'm pretty sure I killed the yeast. If that's really true, I'll really be depressed. What is wrong with me.