This is Just Therapy

Why is it so easy to write random flights of fancy in the wee hours of the morning? Does a lack of sleep inexorably lead to a lack of rational thought which in turn allows me to seriously consider fantastical ideas more seriously?
I keep wondering about what life will be like in the next couple years of my life. Though truthfully I often slip from wondering into worrying. Worrying that I'll never make it as a teacher, that I'll never have a boyfriend, that I'll turn into a lonely and crazy, yet very well educated, homeless person.
The truth is that even in the midst of all these thoughts I can recognize that I'm being irrational and that I'm not even considering God's hand in my life. Instead I get caught up in some kind of Taylor Swift-y whirlpool of emotions. At which point I end up here in front of my computer screen because I believe somewhere inside me that these emotional rants might possibly lead to the kind of writing that people would actually admire.
But tomorrow morning I will wake up and realize that this is actually just a distortion of what I actually am capable of writing. Tomorrow morning I will go and read that analysis I spent hours and hours on last semester and I will sigh because that is some darn good writing. And tomorrow morning I will remember that I wrote this post, chock full of first person pronouns, and within a week I will delete it, because it really is not a faithful representation of me at all.
However, for now I will revel in the fact that this is, after all, my blog, and I'm allowed the occasional dip in a feminine pool of self-pity. After all, it has to come out somewhere, and I would much rather it be here where nobody will read it than someplace more conspicuous.