Balls.

I feel like life is a juggling act, where all you’re allowed to do is juggle metaphorical balls that are actually aspects of your current life.

I’m triumphantly holding a disintegrating ball labeled “Work” — look, ma. I’m doin’ something.

All the other balls are raining down on me, whether it be “writing”, “romance”, every fucking minute thing that goes on in my head and I’m getting tired of failing at living.

I just… don’t know anymore. At all.

The adage about ‘when it rains, it pours’ holds true.

Call the whaaambulance for me, will ya?