I don’t want a job

I don’t want a job. I don’t really want a traditional career, either. I want to work for myself. I want to be my own person. I want to put a metric shit ton of effort into something and to really be rewarded by it. I want to have my success directly dictated by ME. I don’t want to beg for a promotion or a raise. Or a bonus multiplier. I want to be the one to decide.

And I can.

But will I? I’ve wanted to for a long time, yet here I am. I can write. I can blog. I have great computer skills. I’m a pretty good painter, especially when I practice more than once every 10 years.

But I don’t. And that’s the fucking kicker. I let the resistance get to me. It’s easier to sit on the couch with a gin and tonic and watch The Office than it is to get off my ass and paint. I want to say that it’s because I’m tired at the end of the day. Or that it’s hard and I don’t have a dedicated placed to paint/draw/write/whatever. But that’s not it, really. Back in the day, when I was but a wee lad, when I really wanted something, I went out and did it. I do it at work now! I’m fucking great at it!

But the resistance. I let it get to me. I know what to do. I don’t need any more motivational websites. I don’t need any more how-to books on the craft or the business. I don’t need anything except to light a fucking fire under my ass.  A blazing hot poker to prod me along and get me doing it.

Will I?

Yes. (that’s a lie) (no it’s not) (yes it is. Hey, look! A squirrel!)

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