I resent the day I made that decision, and yet I also stand by it firmly. Part of me, maybe a small part but still, wishes I was more practical. More realistic. More cynical. Less naive, less of a dreamer. Why couldn't I be one of those people who wanted to be a builder, a hair dresser or a teacher? An electrician, a mechanic or a supermarket worker? Anything normal. Anything concrete. But no. I want to write. I want to sit with a pen and a notebook and write something with killer speech and snappy characters that come to life when you read their dialogue. And it's just not realistic. It's unreliable. It's stupid. It's dreamy. And I want it anyway. But part of me wishes I'd never had the option to go to uni. Maybe I would've been happier. Who's to say I'll ever get the career I want and still be able to live off the money? It's very unlikely no matter what talent I may or may not possess.
I want a good job, a decent wage and really, just to be comfortable. I have a family, a wonderful boyfriend and a good set of friends behind me, so really I can conquer anything thrown at me. As long as I'm happy, things will fall into place. A job or career will always come second for me. The people in my life and their happiness, as well as my own, are the most important things, and no matter the wage I'm on or the place I'm working, they always will be.