How am I supposed to respect deadlines when I’m the asshole setting them? I’ve hated every boss I’ve ever had, now I’m supposed to be my own? That has twice the danger and half the fun of autoerotic asphyxiation.
On one hand, money. On the other, dedicated time spent towards working a goal without an instant payoff. What’s the point in gratification if it’s going to be delayed? So I can take pride in an accomplishment? Maybe if my brain was wired to make happy chemicals, sure, but I’m a 21st Century Digital Boi and if it isn’t porn in my Twitter feed, why would I spend more than three seconds on it?
Running this silly blog has been so much more stressful than I imagined an outlet for expression would be. I like (or at least at some point liked) writing. Why isn’t this fun? I tell stories about Smokey the Bear or Animal Crossing or how I’d become Pope and I still can’t find enjoyment from it. When I write my friend’s essays about whatever nonsense they’re avoiding to go to a kegger, at least I get paid. Is it selfish to wish I was making more money from something I spend so much time on?
I feel trapped in a cycle of:
- Start new interesting project
- Fail to find immediate success
- Become disheartened and drop it
I’m just burnt out. Maybe living through a plague does that. Maybe I’m just out of funny combinations of words to put together. Either way, I’ve got to keep at this. Not everything pays out like a slot machine, I just need to save my pennies and benefit from the interest.
2021 has got to be better than last year.
Self-Employed Freelancer Terrible Employee, Worse Boss.
That funny headline just became an excuse to vent about my own creative bankruptcy. Whoops!
Misfit Mementos 