probably melodramatic
Some days I don't feel worthy of this place, of the people I sit around tables with and talk to in the halls...I feel like any one of them could do my job better than I could, any one could write a better essay or run a better meeting. And there's always that moment at some time in the bitter morning of the next day when, still in jeans and dress shoes and the spaghetti straps you wore under your sweater all day that you look yourself in the eye and realize that you have no choice than to "make it" the next day, with a smiling face and obliging laugh while your mind is still stuck at two am that morning and there's something about your freshly-painted face that can't hide the raccoon-eyed one of the night before. And you think of those lonely minutes in the chapel, the ones where you sat in silence and let tears run down your face onto a notebook you hadn't written a word in and thought of nothing- of no faces or definitions, only of some overarching feeling of inadequacy, of the fact that the smiles you'd cherished meant next to nothing in friendships constantly re-coloured with your latest imperfection.