Thirty years old, living in a rented house, making thousands of instant noodles every day. My blind date left the meeting with excuses as soon as I dictated the online text, and my relatives took turns trying to persuade me to find a serious job during the Chinese New Year. Last night I stayed up until dawn with two packs of cigarettes to revise and save the manuscript, and I didn't dare to post it until the fifth time I wrote my acceptance speech. There are still four hours until noon, and the number of collections in the background is just over 5,000. I refreshed the page, and there was a new message in the comment area: I ordered it first, please write it carefully. I stared at that line of text for a few seconds, closed the background page, and reopened the document. The cursor is still flashing. I haven't even started writing this chapter today, but it's already dawn outside the window.
