On the seventh day of #PAIN fic...
A/N: Here we go, pals, LUCKY NUMBER DAY SEVEN IS HERE! Messages may or may not be piling up in our inbox again and we will do everything we can to get to those soon (stupid real life is getting in the way of talking to you cool cats). But until then, WE HOPE YOU ENJOY TODAY’S STORY AND THANKS FOR ALL YOUR KINDNESS BECAUSE WE’RE STILL YELLING ABOUT IT.
are these getting gradually more #PAIN-ful as we go? was that intentional? there’s no way to know.
Word Count: 2,195
At some point, your life seemed to have plateaued. You were almost twenty-six years old, almost at the age where you’d be closer to thirty than twenty. Nothing in your life had necessarily gotten worse in the four years since you graduated from UCLA, but there was also nothing pushing you to get out of bed every morning. Nothing about where you were or what you were doing was exciting to you.
After two full years working for the LA Times, you realized that they were never actually going to promote you. Two years of grunt work and entrance-level pay and writing about real estate rather any of the numerous fascinating story ideas you pitched each week and you could tell that none of your bosses had any intention of helping you move forward with your career.