A few days ago I woke up feeling like a failure and a fool. From the moment I opened my eyes, it just sank into my brain like a thick, black poison that whispered negativity into my ear – I wasn’t even a good person. Why in the world had I traveled halfway across the world to go to a convention where nobody knew me, nobody wanted to know me, and if introduced, nobody would want to talk to me any further than that. I was a sham. A fraud. An impostor. Hopelessly awkward, arrogant, and worthless. I was an expert at riding the cusp of failure, always floating just above the surface with such a lack of grace that it would have been better just to stop flailing and go under. I was an also-ran. An almost-achiever. I’d never sell a book, which was good, because everything I’d ever written was derivative trash, easily outshone by Buzzfeed articles with a GIF for every rejection letter I’d ever received. I’d never land a network commercial voiceover project. No one wanted to listen to my music – why would they? It was all crap. Everything I had ever done was crap. I was crap.
And then I ate breakfast.
Guys. Don’t skip breakfast.