You're a writer, you're broke, and you're not as young as you used to be. Beauty fades, but failure does not.

Your circle of friends grows smaller by the day as more and more of them move on with their lives, further their careers, get married, or are otherwise preoccupied with their social circle, a circle which no longer involves you.

You hear from your folks once every three months when they call to check up on you. Your mother says she loves you but you suspect she thinks you're a disappointment. It's not what she says, but how she says it. Your father simply has nothing to say.

Depression and anxiety consume your existence. Nothing brings lasting joy anymore. Your diet is poor and you're losing your hair. Your skin's not as taunt, your girth has gotten wide, and no one's noticed you on Tinder for months. But who could blame them? Who could love what you've become? To be a writer was your dream, and you have nothing to show for all your efforts except half-written manuscripts and a dead-end job. You've lost faith in yourself and every birthday that you spend alone serves only to remind you of what little you've actually accomplished.

What horrors does the future hold?

"Please remember to follow me on Twitter."