Dear Diary,

I call myself a writer. Heck, my graduation present from my brother was an (expensive) rookie Mont Blanc pen—because his sister calls herself a writer. I guess I call myself a lot of things; I label myself a lot in my mind. But what's the point of labels when you don't live up to the labels? I don't write. I haven't written something with true substance since May. We're in July right now, so what's the delay for?

I have to admit, I don't know. Is it my family? Is it my distractions? Is it my lack of care? Or my bounty of carefree attitude? I have so much to do. SO MUCH. Study for the GREs, ace the GREs. Write! Write! Write! Write! But, I haven't lived up to my own expectations. I have gotten so insanely comfortable since I graduated college. I've been lazy. It's been exactly 2 MONTHS & 12 DAYS since I graduated with my undergraduate degree in Economics/English. So much could have been done in these 72 days. Yes, 72 days—I must continue to repeat my lack of progress of 72 days. I've spent my concentration on going out with friends, spending time with the family, drinking, romancing, having sex, and now fasting and praying. Oh, I'm a walking, talking, breathing, existing contradiction. Oh, wow.

But, let me retract my statement of no progress. There has been some progress: I've learned how to apply for jobs. Of course, this is something I should've learned how to do before, but nevertheless, I've learned now. I've enhanced my applications, cover letters, resume(s). I've come up with some ideas (to write, to invest in, to pursue, to do with my fucking life). Excuse this language, Dear Diary, but it was necessary.

I really don't know—I'm just attempting to FIND MYSELF. I'm still FINDING MY NICHE.

—till manyana.