I was asked recently if I'm a writer. Obviously that catapulted me into another existential crisis. I know I cannot say that I'm a writer, I'm not really anything that ends in 'er.' Somehow I've managed to accrue the artsiest group of friends possible, full of painters and sketchers, florists and musicians, yet I still spend my time working and reading. I can format a financial statement, brew a strong pot of coffee and answer a phone with rad professionalism, but how much does that really add up to?
I guess what this leads up to - because every great crisis should have some sort of solution, right? - is that I need to spend some time actually figuring out what I want for my life. Not just telling my parents that that's what I'm doing here in Toronto.
Later days.
I guess what this leads up to - because every great crisis should have some sort of solution, right? - is that I need to spend some time actually figuring out what I want for my life. Not just telling my parents that that's what I'm doing here in Toronto.
Later days.
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