I’m having a shitty 29 hours. I’m hoping it ends soon, but the possibility of the shit spilling into 2-day zone is high.

It all started yesterday, when I received an email about another Filipina writer, quite successful in NYC. Instead of warm-hearted support for another Filipina or simply another woman writer, I seethe with anger and jealousy. Why must I live under the blanket of anonymity? Because I am a toothless fearful person, fretting my life away in a blogging corner – where EVERYONE AND THEIR MOM blogs?

The literary grinch inside me leaps around like an frog on crack and asks THE question, “Why do people in New York get all the breaks?” Meaning, why is a written life in New York perceivably a trillion times more exciting than a life, say, in, oh I don’t know – OHIO? I’ll tell you why. New York is home to millions of people who are there for a million reasons. Ohio is home to millions of people who are there for about 49 reasons. The top ten have something to do with accessibility to really great hospitals on really open highways when you are giving birth to triplets. The latter have something to do with Ohio’s transportation protocol to drive an SUV through its ultra-sleek farmed and flat geography.

I’m planning a trip to NYC, not in my desperation to be discovered as a daytime soap actress (second runner up to being a writer), but to visit my best friends. Under a freakish constellation that HATES me, four of my closest friends picked up their lives and plopped down in the Big Apple. Between the four of them, they’ve ranged in living in NYC for four months to a decade. I leave Thursday night.

In my inferiority complex as a Filipina writer, I asked my childhood friend and Brooklyn resident, Tricia, if she keeps up with my blog, to which she replied, “I don’t read ANYONE’S blog.”

I im- and ex- ploded, “BUT I’M NOT JUST ANYONE!”

If I cannot convince one of my closest friends to read my writing, do I stand a chance against the world full of strangers?

In the miserable mood that I am in, I continue to contemplate my life’s purpose, with regard to writing, photography, marriage, feminism…and life. What IN THE HELL am I doing? Seriously. What am I doing? I guess one could say I am trying to carve out my professional and personal career and it takes time (-Adonis). I could say that I’m taking good jobs that pay well for doing nothing (-Siblings). I’m working my feminism (-Supervisor). Or,

I’m doing my best. (-Me)