Hello Personal Fulfillment,
I hope you receive this letter, I can’t seem to find your address and no one else seems to know exactly how to find you. There are a bunch of greasy snake oil salespeople running around waving your address in the air, but whenever I look closely, they’re all fake. It seems to be that your address is written into my DNA and that you are not somewhere, but are rather a journey to a place that doesn’t exist. Could you explain that to me? Why can you not be a reachable benchmark in my life? Why do I have to constantly shift and remake myself and push myself to be better to find you for a brief glimpse before you uproot and find a new place?
I know that some of this is me – my perfectionism, my questionable self-esteem – but come on! I have people tell me all the time that I am doing great and that I am a standard to be held up to, but all I can think is “You have no fucking clue how hard I am working and that most of the time I feel like I am five steps behind everyone else and faking it” except when I have done something that I know even a brain dead monkey could do, then I’m thinking “No fucking shit Sherlock, if you got YOUR shit together even a little bit you could do this too.”
So, Personal Fulfillment, I hope you get this letter and either send me a response with a return address, or pay me a visit. Otherwise, please read your local newspaper because I am probably going to start taking out personal ads for you.
With more than a little annoyance,
Perpetually Unfulfilled Millennial