The struggle is real

I'm sitting in my squeaky office chair, glancing at the clock every couple of minutes. I don't know why I think it will move faster if I will it to. The multi-line phone is ringing off the hook, and my sweet-but-overly-eager coworker keeps popping in every quarter-hour. My boss is golfing. He could have just lied. He should have just lied. My stomach is growling. I had a tiny frozen meal for lunch. Only 200 calories! Yes, because it is the size of my palm. I would probably punch someone in the face for a frozen margarita right now.

And the thing is, I can't be ungrateful. I make decent wages. I'm not actually starving, or burdnened with some life-threatening illness. How can I complain when I'm just depressed? How can I explain how hard it is to be my only champion (well, and my mother, of course - see? something else I should be grateful for!)? No one I have talked to understands that I can't write something real and what I consider to be good when I'm trapped in a world of spreadsheets and office politics. How do I make a real living writing?