expressing little pockets of self-loathing and self-doubt is healthy, but only in moderation

The Writer has just returned from the coast and slumps over a recent photograph, scrunching up her face and eyes so that the rest of the girls in the photo become blurred, allowing her to focus in on her own indignant look; all of her friends are smiling with open mouths, showing white teeth with confidence. All of The Writer's clothes are dusty and smell of campfire and are covered in little specks of dry crusting ketchup and other condiments, and they make her feel as if she has accomplished something somehow, and she wishes dirty clothes were the kind of thing that demonstrated good character. Something about the coast made The Writer daydream about starring in a romantic comedy. The Writer has mixed emotions about boys in band tee's and is embarrassed by her reliance on male approval and the acceptance of subcultures to feel some sense of self-worth. What a let-down. The Writer comes to the conclusion that she should no longer continue on the career path of becoming an author, grudgingly admitting to herself this: "there is no need for fiction." The Writer considers driving straight back to the coast, into the Pacific, to lay down on the ocean floor forever.