I was a particularly miserable teenager.

An endearing quality I carried into my early twenties, along with a sizable ego and a powerful sense of entitlement.

School had taught us that the world was our Oyster, but neglected to mention that pearls are basically just the Oysters response to irritation (true story. Google how pearls are made, or just go here : animals.howstuffworkscom/marine-life/question630.htm).

I had just started my first full time job, and I hated it. I complained loudly and often. I hated the idea of actually having to do SOMETHING to earn money.

Every day, I would wakeup, drag myself around the house. I would whine. 'I don't want to go to work.'I would get to work and watch the clock tick by 'I don't want to be here'. I was joining the adult world that is plagued by the Monday blahs and the elusive Friday high. I would count down the days to weekend and then jealously horde the only two days of the week I deemed worth living.

My Dad, ever the practical man, finally had enough. He told me that if I continued to walk around telling myself how much I hated my job, or my life, then it should come as no surprise that I did. He said, if instead, I woke up every day and told myself how much I loved my job, then, one day, it would be true.

It's not magic, it doesn't happen overnight. It takes time to convince yourself, but ultimately, my Dad has always believed that we are the product of our own minds. He is not wrong.

Twelve years later, I work for the same company. Not every day is glorious, but I have learned to find what I love in my work, and my life is fuller for it.

Living seven days a week is much better than only living for two, and when I falter, I take the time to refocus on the positive.

If that fails, I lie.

Eventually, I come around.