All I Can Do

As it turns out, I can't stand unemployment for too long. It makes me feel dissipated, like I'm becoming invisible and conversely growing fatter at the same time. I know one's self esteem shouldn't be tied to a paycheque, but there are so many other things tied to it. Things to eat, things to buy, things to see. If I had a vegetable garden and I were any good at gardening, maybe I wouldn't be so bored. As it is, my only project is compiling family recipes and feeling sorry for myself and my poverty.

After getting half my soul sucked to hell in advertising, I figured that I'd give the publishing industry a try. God knows that I can't love grammar and punctuation enough. God, and the many people over the years whom I've offended by correcting them (and I'm not sorry, never will be). And I do love to write. Just as long as making it a profession doesn't turn it into drudgery as well. The publishing industry is unbelievably insular though. No ads, no links, nothing unless you're the editor's niece or secret college hook-up. But I will keep at it nonetheless.

After all, I haven't much else to do. Till I become a gardener.