Suicidal Self-Improvement

So I’ve been thinking, maybe I’ve been going about this whole jobless situation the wrong way.

I’m supposed to be focusing on my business, since I’m enrolled in that class, and I definitely enjoy working on the business from an abstract point of view. Even doing the assessment of the market, and target market research, psychographics. It’s the execution that keeps me paralyzed. To the point where for the past few days I’ve definitely been thinking about getting myself an office manager type position when this little adventure is up.

At first, the idea of returning to full-time employment as an executive assistant in the witness protection program felt like certain death. Like I might as well go take that jump off the Aurora Bridge that I’m always talking about.

But lately it’s begun to feel… soothing. And worst of all, inevitable.

Maybe I’m not cut out for business. For the execution of content on demand. I wasn’t good at it when I worked as a Content Developer at Circle.com in the early 00’s. Each small business network security article felt, literally, like pulling teeth.

Ah ha! You say. That’s because you didn’t care about network security. This is true. But I’m feeling the same way toward a site I run now that is pure fluffy fun and a topic I’ve long been passionate about, a topic I attend to at least daily within my own life: journal writing. And art journaling. And ahhhh… paper.

(Please pause for station identification; the Page has just returned with Hung De crab rangoon for me to devour and they are only good when hot. Did you know Hung De is not the moniker of a well-endowed Chinese man, but a phrase meaning “birds-nest”? Tastiest birds-nest EVAR.)

Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that I am not cut out for the pursuit of a full time business in content creation, that maybe this blogging about various topics is like Seth Godin claims, My Hobby. I think I could accept that, without too much turmoil or heartbreak. I mean, there was even a time last year when I sat at my computer, a total mess for so many reasons, starting at the root folder of my web hosting account, where all of my projects in their various states of doneness lived, all their folders highlighted, index finger hovering over the delete button. I seriously wanted to eliminate the root of my business, to make it a non-entity, so I wouldn’t have to struggle against what I should or shouldn’t be doing in relation to it.

It’s not gotten that bad again, that’s not where I’m going with this. Mainly because deleting all those sites would physically hurt. I can at least show them enough love and affection to allow them to dwindle away slowly into obscurity, filled with spam comments on social media marketing and penis size.

When I was young, my friend Kimberly and I had an interesting conversation about suicide. Never having experienced depression and the holes it can rent like a cancer in your life, Kimberly suggested that – if you were going to kill yourself, why not live for a little while like you had a death wish? You’ve already established that nothing matters. Why not do some crazy shit? Why no pack up your car and drive cross country, eating everything you wanted, having sex with whomever would have you, screaming late into the night, leaving a wake of intense experimentation behind you. I mean, you’re going to kill yourself anyway, right?

Despite having experienced first-hand the dim gray prison of depression, I came to appreciate a certain logic to her view.

So while this is a bit of a cognitive stretch, I’ve been thinking about the next six weeks or so framed by the fact that I might just have to go get another job. Which is pretty much ending my life as I know it from my point of view.

Knowing my world as is would end in 6 to 8 weeks, what crazy shit could I do?

I’m not talking about robbing liquor stores or shooting up with scary foreigners in dark corners.

In fact now that I’ve drawn that parallel, my original intent seems ludicrous. Because I’m thinking about self-improvement.

Like, what insane boot camps could I endure with nothing else slowing me down? How much gym magic could I procure? With discipline on my side, how well could I whip myself back into shape? Because I need whipping. Desperately.

There are all sorts of areas of my life that need deep, focused attention – boot camps of their own. The possibility is intoxicatingly more attractive than the way I’ve been spending my days – reading YA Fiction, eating take-out, call it a miracle when there’s make-up involved (it’s hard to feel like dressing up or looking pretty when smacked up on painkillers and wearing an elephantine boot, crutches at the ready. But we can move on from that – I’m getting stronger.)

So, it’s settled.

This is more free-form writing that I need to attend to elsewhere by hand, so please excuse me. I’ll be back tomorrow and tell you all about it. I know you’ll be waiting with baited breath. (Grossest image ever).

I saved you a crab rangoon.