I long to write a song the world can not dismiss. I've been gone so long. I've been out of touch with family and friends and reality for so long. The truth of the matter is, I got caught up in a life that I'm not even sure I can handle. Kate. Oh, Kate. She's a great designer, but she's not as good at keeping her word as I thought she would be. I spent two whole weeks in Boston. Alone. Eating room service and fast food. I thought I had to stick it out alone because it was my job. It was lonely and I started to resent my work. I didn't sew for a week after I got back. Not even once because I'd done so much while I was gone. Then I got called back to Boston. On the inside, I was dying because I knew it would just be more of the same. More running around with no real direction, more fast food and room service, more not calling home, more missing people. It's fine and dandy to be so young in the industry. To be "making a name for myself" when I'm not even old enough to drink, but it's not what they tell you it would be. Networking is done on barstools and with expensive cocktails in hand. I am a glorified assistant. I am not a helping hand. I am the hand. A few pieces in a show is wonderful and maybe it was worth it.

It's not worth it anymore.

I was promised another place in her show. I've been working my fingers off because it was worth it. I cut and sewed and pinned and hemmed and cuffed because it was supposed to make me love my work. It was what I had to do to show at New York Fashion Week. I had my garments ready. Monday, September 8, 2008. Kate's show was going to be partially mine. It would be her name, but it would be my design. I got my schedule. I got to see Diane von Furstenberg. Then I got the lineup. Kate's handwriting. Kate's sketches. Polaroids. "Finalize the lineup, Charlie. Tell me what order the girls are going in, Charlie."

I'm not showing at New York Fashion Week anymore. None of my garments were in those sketches and Polaroids. None of the models I did fittings on were on the list.

I know that I am a very small fish in an extraordinarily large pond. I know that I never even got to touch fabric when I was at Marc Jacobs. But this was supposed to be it. This was my size 6 designer heel in the door. And, without warning, it's just gone.

I finished the show, but I was on the train back home that night. I didn't stay for Zac. I didn't stay for Betsey. I didn't stay for Max or Michael or Nanette or Anna, Vera, or Calvin, or Custo, or Badgley Mischka. I even had the chance to sit in the very very back of Project Runway.

But I went home. And I left a goodbye letter with Kate. I told her I appreciated everything she'd done for me, but I needed to go my own way. I needed to be my own designer for a while. I needed to go back to making my sister bathing suits and dresses and making my good friend Callum shirts he doesn't wear.

So, I'm here now. No job, no roommate, and possibly no friends.

So far, I'm not sure how I'm feeling.