The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
Life isn’t some narcissistic game you play online. It all matters — every sin, every regret, every affliction. Ask better questions, sweet pea. The fuck is your life.