Managing BTS

Meeting "My" Boys 😳🤢😧

To say I have my life together would be nothing short of a lie.

In fact, it would completely be a lie.

Because at the ripe old age of 23, having just graduated with a degree in English (what the hell can I do with that) and living in a crappy flat the size of a literal shoe box, I am yet to receive any form of direction from the Big Man Upstairs in which way my life is going....at all.

(The Big Man Upstairs being God...not Gus, the guy who literally lives in the apartment above me.)

Which may be enthralling to some, but to me and my unrelenting anxiety, having no clear plan for my future is instead just incredibly daunting.

I didn't sleep last night.

Or the night before.

And...I don't think I slept the night before that either...I can't remember. I seem to have a 72 hour cut off and so anything outside of that is sort of blurry.

Which is why I have completely forgotten about that meeting I have with my uncle today.

Shite.

He arranged it last week (not an excuse on my behalf, just an explanation), because in each of my attempts at getting a job, I've only failed, and it's gotten to the sad point where even he is beginning to pity me.

Cursing myself for waking up late and now  considerably regretting the decision I made to dump my alarm clock, I propel myself from the cosy shelter of my duvet and land ever  so gracefully beside my dresser,

stubbing my toe in the process.

Typical Y/N.

I suppose you may regard me as a mess-the most appropriate terminology to use in my case.

That three letter word seems to perfectly sum up my existence.

(You mean four letter word you imbecile.)

^Which only proves my point further, dearest author.

Especially now, from the reflection of my mirror I appear to be sporting some sort of creature on my head rather than hair.

I should probably brush that out.

Or, actually get round to booking a hair appointment.

That would work too.

To spare you the details of my frantic morning, I jump into the shower, untangle my mane, inhale a croissant, (get dressed, obviously, in my smartest attire may I add), and the bolt out of my apartment, en route (pardon my french—lol) to my uncle's entertainment agency.

The bus journey is, well, rather crap; it's raining heavily and the roads are bumpy and so when I do waddle from the long vehicle to the address of the agency, I'm drenched and feel as if my croissant is crawling up my throat, determined to escape my body before my stomach acid eradicates it.

I get travel sick.
Just a teeny bit.
And that was a quite a graphic description of my breakfast wanting to leave my body, I do apologise.

My uncle specialises in the music side of the entertainment industry, just if you were wondering.

It's a fairly new endeavour of his. Got bored of being a butcher for thirty years and decided to dabble in making some funky tunes for a living instead. Cool guy.

Although, glancing up at the sign above the agency's door, with the words, SmallPunch, clumsily painted onto it, I'm sort of debating if this is the sort of life-style I want to lead as well.