18 June 2018
I did not lose 15 pounds after writing a book. I still go to bed mentally cursing the pouch of fat that has taken up residence beneath my bellybutton that ends up laced with the red marks of too-tight jeans.
My bedroom did not magically become cleaner, or receive more natural light. I wrote a book, but I am still not the type of person who wakes up early Sunday mornings, tucks her hair behind a bandana and scrubs the bathroom like a cheerful, Pinterest-y Cinderella. Post-book Dana still has take-out rotting in her fridge that she couldn't afford to pay the $3.99 delivery fee on, but did anyway. A curdled skin of soy sauce still dots my kitchen table.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
