I chant, "I love my job ..."

When in reality, I'm not so certain. Actually, I know -- I loathe this job like I loathe the skinny jeans I can no longer fit into.

I'm not learning a damn thing at NJL. Take it from a girl who once worked under two amazing editors who have cultivated my editorial and professional prowess, this job sucks. There's a lack of respect in this office. And, the only challenging thing I encounter is dealing with a boss who obviously doesn't trust my work (even though I work my ass off), doesn't value my skills (I think she may have even forgotten that I have a degree in journalism), and on a personal level, thinks I'm below her because I don't have a trust fund.

See that picture? That's me in a slightly understanding pair of skinny jeans and my Zara ballet flats, enjoying a cup of coffee at Starbucks. I consider it my last meal before prison. I typically get a tall cup of white chocolate mocha (skim) with whipped cream. I sip it slowly on the New Hope Starbucks porch and breathe. I'm a hop, skip, and a bridge away from hell. And as I inhale and exhale, I chant, "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job," when in fact, the only thing I love at that very moment is the designer coffee I'm drinking, and the magazine's liberal dress code.