Tuesday, automatic


For discipline’s sake, I decided I should log in and try to write a paragraph, but on what? Morning pages? Not inspired enough. I am here sending out my resume, my CV, my soul out into the ether. I am sick of looking for work. I am sick of reality tv and its soul-sucking machine (the machine of entertainment churning out and spitting me out like a piece of ground beef pre-gravy).

I may go to the hippie kitchen, I definitely could use a cannabis card. For hip pain, insomnia, depression and general malaise. It helps me do stuff.

Oh and EDD is making me come meet them for continued benefits. What does that mean? I have to jump through hoops to get the money I’ve paid into the system. I need an accountant and a lawyer. I need a job and a rent-free situation for a little while to catch up with the insanity that is freelance, that has become my existence, the treadmill roller coaster that I don’t want to stay on, even if that whole description is “counter-intuitive.”

I want to work for Ridley Scott or if not his company someone who appreciates my creativity, my skills, my attention to honing my craft and then let’s me go, make a shitload of money for them or kudos or whatever the next stage is, I just wanna put my head down and get to work.

Okay, then, they say in mark something to believe what you pray for. here goes…

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