On being an adult, and it sucking.

It's high summer in glorious suburban Philadelphia; roughly this translates to "it's hot as fucking hell." It's also Monday, which is a pairing that pretty much makes me want to be anywhere else on the planet but work, and yet? And yet. Here I be.

To combat the stultifying ennui that is threatening to overwhelm my fragile sensibilities, I thought I would try and plan a weekend beach trip. The beach!, thinks I. That shit always makes me happy. So I'm scanning my social calendar and trying to come up with a) who to badger, and b) what sparkling shore line destination to choose from in the great bevy of eastern seaboard destinations and then .... oh, and then.

THEN I had the crushing realization that my internship starts this Saturday; my summer classes, in fact, start today. I am basically fucked, schedule wise, until the week of September 19. I will be spending the next 11 Saturdays in a fucking kitchen, where it will likely be 125 degrees on a good day, and the rest of the week juggling that absurd fucking "sleep? fuck sleep" 18+ hour day schedule and MAN I CAN'T WAIT AND GOD MY LIFE IS AWESOME.

It is times like these that I genuinely question where my head was at when I decided that going back to school was a good fucking idea.

FML.

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Addendum: the restaurant? I'm interning at? On Saturdays? Just called me and decided it would be better to split my hours between Tuesday nights and Saturdays.

So now I'm working 7:30 to 4:30, Monday through Friday.

I'm going to class 5:30 to 11pm on Mondays, Wednesday, and Thursdays. On these days, I'm waking up at 5:30 in the morning and coming home at midnight. Just so we're clear.

I'm interning at a restaurant from 5 to 9 on Tuesdays, and god knows what hours on Saturdays, because apparently no one in the restaurant industry gives any thought to planning ahead.

So I have off Sundays. And I'm theoretically free on Friday nights, but let's not even pretend I'm going to be doing anything other than sleeping, crying, or drinking alone. And my husband? Is off Tuesdays and Wednesdays. And works til 1 in the morning otherwise. So we will see each other absolutely never. And that fucking blows.

This only amounts to so much whining, but it is taking a Herculean effort to not just say 'fuck this' and move on with my life. Like, what is the purpose of this slow fucking suicide? I'm nearing 30. I no longer have the wiggle room to go "yeah, I want to make $7 an hour cooking, because I fucking love cooking" - it's not like I'm going to take this $40,000 degree, once acquired, and actually do anything with it. I can't afford to make $7 an hour. Shit, I can't afford to make $20 an hour, let's be honest here.

I don't know. I'm venting, I guess. I'm clearly not going to drop out of school, or I would have done it already. But I think about it. Frequently. And lustily.