[1246] Bear Minimum

I don’t even want to proofread this. That should tell you whether you should bother with this one. No, I didn't mean "bare."

Everything I’m going to attempt to talk about is complicated by the cold and snow. I need discipline. I can feel too many things competing for my attention. It’s been preventing me from finding the peace I can usually get a sip of from writing. I think I’m going to avoid spending any time contextualizing something for “the random reader.”

I find myself returning to an idea that anymore, I want the bare minimum. My life has swung back and forth between austerity and indulgence. One was a project in service to a sense of long-term stability or growth. The other a reaction to the creeping understanding that I no longer believed I was going to achieve either.

I owe money. Not really, but according to criminal institutions, thieving family and friends, and the capricious greed of former employers and my state. The processes afforded to me in order to discharge debts have lied, wasted time, and are now salivating to squeeze me for every single penny I already don’t have.

You can only exempt $450 in Indiana of money in your bank account. Doesn’t matter if you have a $316 electric bill, $520 due to a credit card, $1800 in legal fees you borrowed, and $650 more you needed thinking you’d get your water running. if your account says more than $450, “It’s complicated,” according to my lawyer as to why actually filing still hasn’t taken place. Gotta make sure those transactions aren’t pending if you’ve moved to pay the bills too. Kentucky? You can have $8,000 in cash. But, I live in Indiana, one of the shittiest states in the country.

But it gets dumber. I’ve been telling my lawyer for weeks how much my “business” is worth. You know, the LLC with no assets that’s renting a house on the back of good graces from one of its partners. Super stable. My 25% stake gets me, anymore, a couple hundred bucks a month, maybe. Less now with a couple relapses and disappearances. This, another hiccup for the attorneys who can’t seem to understand I’m not trying to hide from them a house my business does not own, I certainly don’t own, and I can’t even expect a consistent meaningful profit from.

What are the fixes? Sell things? Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Also, the whole country is aggressively bleeding people dry, so it’s not like there’s too many itchy buyers for your old broken vehicles. I’m trying to get into a drug study. I’m poised to check in Monday. There’s a chance I flame out because my anxiety gets the best of me and my heart rate is too high during the final screen. That’s why I stopped doing studies for 10 years the last time. All I need to do is get to Cincinnati, not be one of the unlucky who isn’t chosen to dose, and then there’s a consistent income for 6 months with each trip back.

I haven’t been able to leave my house for 5 days. My car can’t get out of my driveway. My truck, with its precarious battery, was dead. Why haven’t I fixed the battery by now? It’s one of 20 things I could spend money on that need fixed, and until I absolutely needed to drive the truck, why spend it back then? Did we get more snow in 2 days than has snowed in 8 years? Oops. Now I’m underprepared, again.

The truck is currently, hopefully, being charged, and will retain that charge long enough to drive into town and get a battery that will eat up approximately 25% of my current capital. Then I’ll get some food; sandwich stuff, potatoes, and sausage are the usuasl. This is provided I can navigate the tundra road that is my rural neighborhood. I’ll try not to think about how my truck costs 3 times what it does to drive my car. I’ll almost certainly have to drive the truck to both Chicago and Cincinnati.

My best case scenario is that I’m filed this week, granted access to the study next week, taken to be as poor as I am by the treasurer's office, and in 3 months I’ve paid back my dad, fixed my water, and caught up on other bills related to my credentialing, insurance, and remaining credit card.

In the story my life seems hellbent on trapping me within, I continue to get “Weeeelll, we were talking” hiccups to getting my paperwork filed. I psych myself out of the study, or am not picked at all, making a mockery at that point of whatever I managed to do to reign in my anxiety and heart rate. I’m unable to get my car out for weeks leaving me to be potentially door dashing in a truck. When it’s time for the hearing, I get picked apart or delayed because they want to exercise every "fuck you" move they can. In the meantime I’m trying not to make “too much” money that makes them more powerful. I’m arguing with myself if I can or should try to go to the next show. And that plays out for months until I’m forced into Chapter 13.

I have to refrain from sliding out on what I’m hearing is large amounts of black ice and overturned semis, from what I’ve experienced, as generally negligent road clearing efforts. I have to spend most of my time in between the drives and decision-making from on high in my very cold poorly insulated home that hasn’t had running water for over a month. I get to smell bad for longer because I was showering at Planet Fitness before dashing. Those are 45 minutes away not in snow and ice, mind you.

Moving out here altogether used to be my bare minimum. I’ve been able to go to shows because “the basics” were well enough in place. Now? It feels like my home is not living up to what I need. I don’t know if it’s because I’m getting older and less resilient. I don’t know if I’m just opening up to more liabilities as I struggle to keep things maintained when they all want to break at once. I don’t know if I’m just tired of fighting the backdrop of constant attack. I can’t get left alone. I’m never “good enough” to just ride my little corner of the world.

I want the decisions already. I want to know what it is I have to navigate. I work quickly because I hate ambiguity for its own sake. I hate feeling dependent on forces and people I can’t respect nor would ever carry myself like.

It’s hard to play your instruments when you can’t feel your fingers. It’s hard to wood work when you’re hotboxing dust. It’s hard to yoga, or sew, or whore bathe. So I sit, write, make tiktoks now, and wait until I get little bursts to get up and pee, eat, or fuck with the 10-steps between me and starting the real also-complicated, also-annoying process. I still have to go check on the battery. What happens if I can’t get it to start? Which of my neighbors do you think wants to cart my stank ass into town? My friend that lives in town is in Florida for 3 months dealing with problems that make mine laughable. My next closest friend lives an hour away.

Can the cats go, perhaps a whole week, unattended? I think the most I’ve done is 5 days. If the power goes out and their water freezes? I can’t even sit here and think about what to say next without my foot freezing over. The cold shows me how poor my circulation is and what areas of my body are poised for arthritis like my dad and grandpa.

What do I even want to do? Nothing. The bare minimum. I want to feel, again, like there is absolutely nowhere I have to be, no one knocking, no disaster needing cleaned up, no hand reaching its way into my pocket. I want to do that for so long that the next thing I do after that registers as the best thing I’ve ever done.

But I need to get back to being broke. I need to get the bills paid a year or two in advance. I need to be the friend who’s able to buy the tickets, dinner, drinks, parking, and tickets to the next thing between sets or intermission without blinking. I need to be able to decide I have the energy to do a little bit with a hole and concrete, so let’s capitalize on the moment and not weigh the $40 in materials against the gas prices. My life needs to more consistently feel as good as it actually is. I can’t feel better or good until I’m meaningfully distanced from all of the forces I clock as wanting me under heal or dead.

I’ll then scroll through reddit and read stories, maybe true, of people pissing away, winning, or making more money in an hour than I’ve ever been in debt, ever made a year, or would even be worth if I sold everything I owned. I’ll compare my laments to the people with health struggles, ICE’s fascism, considerably more invested-in and more respectable roles and lives than I’ve managed and I’ll self-impose a “go fuck yourself” sensibility. I’ll type in circles. I’ll go back to TV. I’ll click between windows. I think it’s about time to get disappointed by the battery again.

[1240] Make Myself Believe

I want to state for the record, and for future me, I’m perfectly aware that I’m in some form of a “panic hole.” I’ve never used that term before, and I suspect my version of “panic” looks many degrees more muted and boring than average. I’m invoking the concept because of what I’ve observed in my behavior over the last two weeks.

I think it started when I got surprised by what was a miscommunication in what my sober-living house business partner expected to be paid. We’d previously split everything equally. She needed to pay back some family that got the house into the condition it was for move-in ready. I eagerly agreed to the amount she asked for. I thought, incorrectly, it was an amount that included the bills. I learned from a text requesting the money otherwise a couple weeks later. Now, instead of having enough money to basically cover my bills each month, I’m underwater in what’s left to split.

Moreover, I’ve been the primary force for ensuring the house is even remotely coherent, legal, and stable. I’ve evicted the people who couldn’t hack it, in the middle of the night, twice. I’ve packed and moved their shit. I’ve drawn up and gotten the contracts signed. I’ve done outreach looking for more referrals. I’ve picked up furniture, installed cameras, and otherwise navigated house logistics. We would not have a house had I not put together the spreadsheet and made the argument to the house owner partner. I’m still working on what it would take to get our next house.

Selfishly, spiritually, I understand wanting to make as much money as you can off of your assets. I understand, deeply, viciously, the desire to pay back what you owe and not being beholden to what someone has done for you. I would have more sympathy for this position were she keen to show up to group meetings, explain the responsibilities she’s willing to take over with her increased wealth, and acknowledge that there would be no “business” part of this arrangement, or any money to take from, were it not for me.

As with everything, I just have to sit around and wait. I can put together the numbers, ask the questions, and earnestly try to build something profitable and sustainable, and yet always be at the mercy of someone else. My effort won’t be appreciated or recognized, and I have to be careful I don’t threaten what I’m allowed to keep. Yes, there’s paperwork, but who wants to pay lawyers when you’re trying to make money or like and respect the people you’re working with? This frustrating and disorienting stage gets set.

Then, a few days later, I get something of a demand letter from Chase. Dutifully, I sent it to my debt consolidation company, as I’ve sent them every piece of outreach from the three companies involved in my debt consolidation plan for the last fifteen months. I learn that my monthly payment could more than double in order to appease and “resolve” my account. For the first year, all I ever needed to do was come up with $416 a month. That paid all my house bills, plus the consolidation. I was assured the accounts would all find their resolution in 3–6 months. That did not happen.

Now, I’ve started to make it my mission to get out of debt. When I’m not in debt, I need to make about $300 a month to stay afloat. I’ve made $150, gross, from Door Dashing the last 2 days. That snapshot is the picture of my life I’m trying to return to. The journey is through, let’s just say, $20,000 of debt. So much of that is predatory interest and fees, not what I racked up, and that’s not counting what I think is $7,000 in payments made already.

I’m constantly trying to land on math that doesn’t make my head explode. I have an old work van that should be worth at least $5,000 I’m trying to sell. I have a car trailer worth at least $1,000. I’ve got a friend doing her budget to see how she might buy a chunk of my land. I have a box truck I don’t know what it’s worth, but I’m told there’s a certain kind of person who likes those boxes or frames on which they can put their own. There’s a drug study in Cincinnati that’s only 4 days with 11 outpatient visits that would net $8,800. I was, stupidly, anticipating getting a new job that would gross about $2,200 a month. I was going to continue dashing after work, and pursuing whatever I could sell.

It looks like so much potential, no? It feels like I can say something like, “By the numbers, this makes sense, and it shouldn’t take that long or be that hard.” Then, the emails. Your car insurance is due. Your credential renewal fees are coming. I haven’t washed dishes or been able to flush my toilet for over a month as my well pump died. I can’t afford the pump or labor, so in comes my dad to rescue me. Let’s owe $650 there now. Let’s think about the money your friend donated to allow you to counsel clients for free and try to jumpstart your business. You certainly will feel forever on the hook there until you turn yourself into an investment that starts paying her back. Are any of these people nagging you, begging you, resenting you, etc. about the money? Absolutely not. They don’t have to.

I tend to meet the immediacy of panic with action. That’s good when it can ground you. It’s dangerous when your brain is on fire and you’re driving the latest messy or frustrating order, cursing yourself severely about getting a college degree so you could be driving a salvaged car from Chick-fil-A to a rich person’s house who doesn’t tip.

I tell people all the time how angry I am. The most persistent feedback I get is, “I don’t believe you.” They aren’t around for screaming myself hoarse at the cunt riding my ass. They aren’t watching me flirt with death as I take metal rods to the face, fumbling around in the dark on my land, looking for a special tool I need to service my well under the delusion that I can do it myself with enough YouTube and AI. I can get to a point, then I need the $100 tool, then the $400 tool, then the patience to yell at AI to focus back up.

I’m so disoriented I tried to post to TikTok. In the furthest reaches of my arbitrary dreams-of-a-fix mind I think, “Why can’t I go viral?” I’m still pretty cute. I make people laugh regularly. All that superficial shit like hard nips will get people to click and then my quippy sentiments or deadpan or whatever it is can get some attention, and then like BetterHelp or Quintz or some shit will want to put a logo in the corner and I’ll be back in shape in no time! Maybe a Band-Aid company will want to sponsor covering up what the pole did to my nose!

I upload my first video. It’s a, and this is crucial, genuinely sincere statement about being tired of being poor. I’m driving. I qualify it, “Not poor poor, but poor enough.” I avoid the annoying things I don’t like seeing in videos. It’s a perfect throwaway micro-attention piece of bullshit that could get passed around or remixed and applied elsewhere. It was almost a little sing-songy. I open it up a few minutes later to check on any views.

Removed for “original sound.”

Hello? God? Is that You? Do I have to believe now? Your boy is too dumb and old to even TikTok right. I can’t even dip into the mindless hopeless waves of look-at-me opinion posting, and I still haven’t bothered to read or learn why. Whether it’s some stupid thing I didn’t catch in the post settings, or, as my mind naturally assessed, indicative of the arbitrary tyranny and control of a platform to silence any potential for solidarity around class struggle, I don’t know. I uninstalled the app. (The second video I posted worked, I just checked right now. 34 views!)

That panic allows me to kill the part of me that feels too stupid for finding myself Door Dashing. I’m the guy who cheerleads his clients to work to get their lives together. We’re both doing the same kind of job because I dropped the ball. Yes, yes, “the system,” yada yada, I’m totally on board with how damning and impossible it is. But also, I tend to hack the system and have clearly been getting lazy. At least, that’s easiest to believe. If I can centralize the problem on me and what I’m fucking up, there’s a certain ironic hope that it can actually be fixed. If I’m truly caked in as much shit across settings as I fear, now we’re flirting with some properly life-ending darkness narratives. I’m not keen to die, so what’s the takeaway?

I didn’t really want the job I didn’t get. It didn’t feel like something that was going to be stimulating, worth the drive and time, and wouldn’t meet my actual desire to find something fully remote. It’s the inconsistency of the income combined with car costs that fuel my catastrophic thinking.

Anyway, I must have reached the end of my breakdown for the moment as I’ve reinstalled TikTok and started posting inflammatory content. Pray for me! I’m told it just takes one sponsor or viral moment.

[1164] Buzz

I feel like the last few times I've gone to write, the essence of the "randomness" in my head is not breaking through. I feel like I'm only taking quarter or half shits. There's a dozen lines or insights from the things I'm listening to that never make their way in. There's moods and observations skipped right over. I really want to rectify this. As I type, if you feel yourself understanding, you might be having a stroke.

Hasan Minhaj speaking to Mike Birbiglia talked about being all-in when it comes to comedy. As you're coming up, you differentiate the people who happen to take to the stage sometimes, and those who put their whole ass into this being the path and lifestyle.

This is a familiar feeling I get when I observe people. This distance between me and whomever I'm looking at who has clearly chosen some path. It doesn't have to be something particularly showy or grandios. I'm somewhat flabbergasted by the plumber just as much as I am the known performer. I've never wanted anything to the degree that I would put my whole life and sense of direction or intention behind it.

We can look at the things I've done the longest. Writing is the far and away winner there. It's the one thing save basic survival behavior I've done for 21-ish years now? And it's more of a "have to" kind of thing because I don't want to hurt myself or others. I've heard comedians discuss their careers in those terms. School comes in second, which again was more or less compulsory. I was in a relationship for 5 years, but depending on how in the weeds you want to get there, you might only count 2 or 3 of them. The longest job I've had was my first, at the theater, for 2 years and 8 months. DCS was second at a week shy of 2 years. Aside from growing up, where I live currently is the longest I've stayed in one place, about 7 years.

The gentleman training me at the factory job I quit today had been there for 22 years. Before that, he was at KFC for 25. Talk about whole-assing.

Him, and the other people on the lines at the factory, I have to stress to remind myself, are all people. They don't look, feel, or sound like people as they're silently repeating actions on plastic car parts for 10 to 12 hours a day. But they're people. They're people who are getting exploited, even if their circumstances have been greatly improved working there compared perhaps to where they are from. I found it fascinating that way more than you'd think couldn't speak basically any English. The "excitement" of stupid-fascism snapped into focus in that environment.

I would put money on the fact that none of those people are the types to come home, write a big reflection on their experience of their job, dig into the politics of the moment, and play with the spreadsheet of their wages. It's not to knock them. It's to discuss, fucking dramatic, differences in types of people. I already stick out amongst the ones you'd think would be more my ilk, but holy shit. Put your head down, repeat, stay as long as we tell you, take what we say is fair in pay, do it for years? If you can wrap your head around that, you've got something I don't.

There's this chasm in talking about things trying to match the feeling language with the "reality." You might clock perfectly well that there's something rotten about the existential circumstance that cobbles hundreds of vulnerable people together to hock Subarus. You definitely clock being hungry, or the worries and obligations towards your family. At that juncture, I, hopefully not too hastily and cuntily wonder, are you really living?

I worry about this question constantly. I'm not under the impression an afterlife is waiting for me. I'm not super keen on martyrdom, slave-value-esc sacrifices, and choking shit down because "one day" it "gets better." No the fuck it doesn't. It just stays "like this." Every day. Every single fucking day is exactly like this, and sometimes you'll snap your fucking truck mirror off trying to be polite to let your neighbor pass on your country ass road, and sometimes you'll be gifted a vehicle that helps you escape many dire circumstances both real and self-imposed. I had tape in the truck, so, like most things in my life, it functions, but it'll never be pretty.

I've been writing music. I've got a song that I started out not liking for all the stuff I would have done better, then each time I listen to it, probably past 100 by now, I like it more and more, even though it's still definitely fucked up and could be re-recorded, but why? There's this interesting thing that happens where all of the most melodramatic and ridiculous feelings get almost mocked in their condensed form to make a song structure. As someone who has written out so much of his complicated series of swirling bullshit thoughts, when I can just be like "maybe I should just die" in a disquieting upbeat tone set against a dissonant background, it does so much of the same work in a different way. I'm both a better and worse singer, piano player, and drummer than I ever thought I could be.

That's one of the things I got to do today not going into the factory. I had a few lyrics hit me as I was helping my friend pick up a water tank. You can't use your phone on the shop floor, or have to disappear to the bathroom. I think any amount of words put to music are more important than a Subaru fender. You can disagree or decry apples vs oranges, and I'll call you a cunt, and we'll depart not as friends.

I felt such relief Door Dashing today. It's a weird thing to think about. All of those "side-hustle" companies have just as many issues as any other. But you know what? I was listening to podcasts. I signed off and on when I wanted. I made enough money to let it sink in that it's a viable way to hit my floor so I don't have to stress as badly. I don't have to think about driving 4 hours directly to Chicago to catch my next show, Whitney Cummings, from the factory because I couldn't come up earlier.

I've become, still incredibly mildly, invested in this phone videogame Last War. I have a team that genuinely tries to beat other people. I don't think I would like or get along with nearly any of them in real life and most of their chats upset me. It's just incredibly awkward 30 to 40-something women in the leadership positions who have all alluded to their upper-class lives and basic-bitch tastes. It's the closest I can come to embodying "factory-type person." I click all the bubbles, calculate rewards, and do my little schoolyard version of Starcraft building and strategizing. When I first entered the alliance, I was dismissive and condescending to one of the leaders saying I did not intend to treat the game like a job. This, in response to her awkward ass energy having a whole ass conversation by herself, like 15 texts, after I blocked her. I discovered said texts weeks later after a cooldown period and unblocking that helps bring coherence to the group chat.

It's getting colder, and it's another winter in which I've neglected building a wood-burning stove. Every year I pretty desperately need it for a good portion of time, and every year I spend money on literally anything else. The overall desire to build out/on my land has dwindled dramatically. I spend most of my time right here, just as I did when I was in apartments and other houses. I'm either in front of my computer, asleep, or not home the vast majority of my time. Every extra room is something new to clean, fix when I inevitably build it wrong, or act as a drain on my already massively inflated electric bills.

I'm gonna stop for a while because my eyes hurt.

It's a few days later. The Whitney Cummings show was alright. I got to spend most of the weekend with my friend. We watched another Marvel movie and got wine drunk. I (she pays me) cleaned her house, car, and garage. I was unable to Door Dash because the gifted car immediately broke down, but I've learned this morning it's back up and running. After my session with a new client tonight, I'll go and pick it up and dash a few hours.

I listened to a couple books while I was cleaning. The Elephant in the Brain discussed the performative games humanity plays to fit in and signal all the right things. It wasn't anything new information wise, but it's nice to know other autistic-adjacent people like Coleman Hughes and the author are resonating with the same themes of my experience. In the book, a discussion of this bird who spends all of its energy creating a human-sized display struck me. Is that not my whole existence out here? Except the momma birds in that species don't expect dad to raise the kids.

When I go to Chicago, I fantasize a lot about owning one of the apartments across the street or right above the venues I go to. I have to drive 4 hours, get parking, be awake and sober enough to get back home. Or I have to be on time and directionally aware if I take the train at least into the city. When I look up how much it would cost to live across from The Chicago Theatre, it's minimum $1500 a month, more likely $2000 to $2500. I'm assuming this leaves out utilities, garbage, or anything else the city or an HOA inevitably tacks on. My property taxes, electric, and internet for the year still don't go above $5,000.

It makes it easy to "kill the fantasy" when I consider how much I would have to work to keep my little box with all of its rules, noises, and neighbors so I could "conveniently" walk to and from a show. It also wouldn't be mine, like my land is. I also, never, have someone coming up to me asking for cigarettes or change, and I keep off weight not having the world's best food around every corner. But, I love Chicago, and were I rich, I would get an apartment there and try to immerse myself in it deeper.

I think about my ex-friend's uncle who killed himself. The last time we talked was at Christmas a few years ago, and he talked about how he has so much money, time, and he's never been more sad in his whole life. My counsel at the time was to focus his energy on a problem worthy of his status. If you have money and time, what are you working on that matters? Matters to you, at least? If you don't set and reset goals in an ongoing way, you get stuck reflecting on all the stuff you've surrounded yourself by that has transformed in meaning. It's not the thing you're striving for anymore. It's not a reason to get out of bed. It's not to alleviate a pain. It's just there, mocking you. My home, like Chicago, like every individual life, is a complicated series of thousands of decisions and circumstantial happenings that require constant attendance and reorganizing.

It's why I'm never done writing. I'm seeking a peaceful-enough platform to continue engaging in decisions that never feel that correct. I can build confidence into them, but I'm staking an existential claim with each one. This is what I want. This is who I am. I can intellectually accept that I am constantly changing and any kind of static statement is illusory. But shaking a persistent feeling? I still feel, in some ways, like I did as a child. If nothing is really permanent, what do you make of that? Perhaps it can never be accurately articulated, but it's a force, impression, hint, echo, something that I don't think can or should be ignored.

I've been thinking more about stealing. I mean in the context of music or creating things with my woodshop. I think way too damn hard about what to do with my time or days, and it leaves me feeling lazy and paralyzed no matter how much I actually get done. I can knock out every errand, help a friend, build something, retrieve a car, work, and get home like "You fucking cunt, 3 hours went by, and all you did was more TV?" I worry about the costs of experimenting with some new side-quest that I hope makes me money. I hit certain, pretty foreseeable roadblocks, when I jump into one of my dozen land projects. I get bored before I begin to even bother grinding through the next videogame.

But I like the idea of like, learning how to craft or make little trinkets in tribute to the things I already like. Can I make a fun wall decoration of the hand grenade heart? Can I resurrect split-up bands or celebrate my favorite songs with things I could churn out from scrap wood, but still make look cool? I've thought about crafting something I could give my favorite comedians, especially the ones coming up. Even talking about it like gives me a sense of vigor and excitement.

I can feel the order of operations in my head at all times. I need to secure (x) amount of dollars first, which entails maybe door dashing for 2 to 5 days morning to night. Then it's make peace with locking myself down and not wasting money on gas. I gotta make sure to get all my laundry and food shopping done while I'm out. I need to submit more applications and job search. I need to plan for what I'll need to do more projects for my friend in rehabbing her house. Then, I might "have the time" or secure the headspace to spend a few hours learning how best to go about making little gifts for the people who make me laugh. If I don't do it like that, I'll undermine my ability to get any piece of that train done.

I understand this is the nature of my irrational compelling feelings. I can refute it. I can choose differently. But it will take a lot of energy and constant redirection. I don't know if exerting my energy that way is necessary. I do know that this is the exact nature of how or why people do or don't change with regard to literally anything in their life. There's an order of operations, almost never articulated, that steers the ship independent of the reality of any given moment. I can watch a woodworking video right now, but it's not where my head "feels" is "correct. " I can change that feeling.

I've been setting myself up for failure looking for the same kind of desperate rush and hyper-focus of my past. Nothing is going to invigorate me like the naive story I was riding about my potential and future. I've lived too long, met too many people, worked on too many things to "believe" anything. I see the structure. I recognize the luck. I understand the need for having something you can sustainably do constantly that crashes into enough people until you can properly plug in. I recognize the road to fame and the road to business owner. I don't have an adequate daily practice, and that's informed by years of daily practices being aggressively undermined, ignored, or exploited.

What do you practice when the nature of practice turns suspect? I think my instinct about giving things I create to people who give me what they're creating provides an answer of gratitude or appreciation. I never stop practicing writing. I never stop practicing learning, from how to record music now to what small woodworking things I've done recently. I think you practice flexibility, from me doing squats to mental flexibility in thinking about what I might have to do to escape stupid-fascism and entrenched enshittified moral calculators.

I don't need a religion, but I do need to belong. I don't, in so many ways. I do, kinda, sometimes, here and there, when I'm up for the performance. Whether it's fair to the people I'm closest with or not, I can't shake the sense that I'm one day going to fuck it all up or see it destroyed? It could be an ongoing childhood trauma response or just a reflection on how pressed up against my chaotic nature I really am. If fundamentalists of any stripe are even fractionally afraid of that sensibility, it makes sense the amount of shit they would swallow and holler about in order to maintain the faux sense of order.

In 30 minutes I'll hold a session with my new client. I need to eat. I need to find the will to dash. I also think I'm going to utilize my white board to try and draw out a big mind-map of the different little tasks I want to explore for making money. I genuinely feel like this entirely different kind of existence is just around the corner. I have so, so much, potential, so poorly organized. You could not ask for more tools, time, or things to constantly learn about and experiment with. What's the nature of the challenge worthy of that/me? Do I exercise the discipline, or pretend I need to roam around the woods until I find it? I think I'd prefer to belong in the cage I build myself than the ones I find myself trapped in.

[1099] Choo Choose

The last few days I've been in the space of "trying to persuade myself." It's becoming increasingly obvious that is the main pipe between my otherwise chill sensibilities and any amount of anxiety. I don't want to do what I don't want to do. I don't like the anticipation of what I instinctively imagine it's going to feel like. I think it's the same mechanism behind why you don't want to jump straight into the pool, even if you'll get immediately acclimated, and it doesn't hurt, and it shortens the "suffering."

I'm on unemployment. I've never been on unemployment before, even if I've certainly qualified for it. I have almost no bills and it's not nearly enough. But that's not even my problem. My problem is that it's a humiliating series of reminders about the state of your existence and what your literal state thinks about you.

You'll get it cancelled or penalized if you don't show them you've kept a record of the jobs you've applied to. You have to file every week, inputting the same information you've put in before, but just because they're cunts, they want your finger to slip so they can claim it doesn't match last week. You have to drive to a center an hour away for an hour and a half meeting that ensures you know how to put your resume together, submit cover letters, and get all of the paperwork in order that show you're not just "leaching" off the state.

I've graduated college, opened businesses, literally built my house, and worked for 20 different job environments both blue and white collar from literally scrubbing toilets to handling child removals. I've never been paid enough. I've always worked to concurrently create an environment I hope can directly compete with the exploitative asks and standards of what's otherwise considered "normal" or "inevitable." I paid to not only have my resume updated and professionalized for modern horrifying auto-deny machines, but have submitted dozens of applications and invested in grant-writers and fundraisers after establishing my addiction counseling company as a nonprofit.

So tell me, state of Indiana, what do you think you can teach me about how to pull myself up by my own bootstraps?

I have to create a little profile, fill out some forms, waste time and gas to play their game. Conversely, I need one grant to hit. If it's higher than $10K I'll have at least paid back what I've invested to get them submitted and keep the lights on the rest of the year. I'm one celebratory email away from having achieved what I've been after business wise for many years. My personal expenses, while still higher than what unemployment covers, hover around $10,000 a year. I don't need much to be able to offer free services and keep the bills paid.

It's not more complicated than it has to be. The idea of, "What do you really want?" has been floating around the media I've been listening to. I want the work I do and time I spend to not be "trying to persuade myself." That isn't my time at that point. That's time being hijacked by something I perceive to be a waste or unreasonable. It's why I, at least, would ever "procrastinate." I don't struggle to focus or stay organized. I struggle to swallow and remain pressed up against bullshit.

I noticed the longer I sat alone and marathoned/organized my TV shows and fired back up the video game systems that I don't clench my jaw. My shoulders don't get tight. That sense of dread doesn't kick in until I'm facing the prospect of this condescending paperwork. I can slash pirates all night, predict plot points on my shows, or play the same riffs indefinitely, and I never feel like I feel googling the address of some bullshit company to prove to no one in particular that I'm worthy of basic subsistence. I don't feel like shit paying money I don't have for people I'm investing in to help my business grow. I don't feel hollow reading code and policy to make sure I don't fuck up the taxes or forget a form for my company.

I'm not "shiny." I'm not the fake bullshit that the brain-dead world pretends to find convincing or indicative of competence. You know why I would spend $1000 or more to have you write a grant for me? Because I'm paying you to lie like other people need to hear. I can't do it long enough without giving up, letting my hatred seep through, or my exhaustion make me look like a pleading beggar. I don't want the background muzac on an inoffensive background and script telling you how effective our approach is compared to the other guys. You know why what I do does or doesn't work? It's just fucking real.

You either set a goal that's specific, or you don't. You either dig into the vague language you use to describe your "love" or your feelings towards difficult circumstances, or you don't. You either believe you want to get "completely off everything" and you work through the psychological and bodily pain to do so, or you don't. You can do so alone, or you can do so with someone who understands the struggle of delineating and committing to tough decisions. That's it. That's all it is. Over and over and over and over and over again.

I can whine and complain and pretend to negotiate with the universe about how unfair and ridiculous my circumstances are. I can pretend any one of us "deserves" anything. I can cite a hundred reasons any one of my decisions might look questionable or unreasonable. You know what I do next? I try anyway. I spend the money. I show up. I work. I complain about how unprepared I was to deal with -30 degree weather under my two heated blankets, sandwiched between cats with a heated vest in the mail, utilizing the time to catch-up on subtitled movies.

Fundamentally, we have a very bad sense of what it is we "really" want or need. When we arrive at a relative conclusion, there's no guarantee that we're correct. There's little to no conversation about how to approach or discover this dilemma. I had to write for years before I recognized I want/need my time more than money. I wanted a "floor" to work from more than convenience. Those two sentiments alone guide my decision-making in major ways. I want to express myself creatively more than simply to amass "stuff." I want to spend time with anyone I care about doing just about anything before I'll pick an activity I can do alone.

I am standing deep within a well of my creation regarding discovered and cheered for desires. I defend my perspective line by line every time I get that sense of impending doom that suggests I'm lost in the forest losing my footing on the tree I'm climbing. It's work. It's time invested in a specific direction regarding what makes the most sense big and small decision wise with regard to what I profess to care about. I'm trying to shed one of the hardest taken-for-granted obligations we impose on ourselves that exists. I'm trying to reconnect to the dignity and ownership of my work. I'm trying to match the ideal to a practically felt reality. That shit is fucking hard for an infinite list of reasons outside my own hang-ups or perspective pitfalls.

Eventually I think the work will speak for itself. I don't "believe" it will like there's something magical about it. I'm literally the work speaking for itself every time I do. I'm sitting within my previously achieved goals. You can measure my progress day-to-day, week-to-week, year-to-year. I get more time and I use it to play more. I get a more stable floor, so I make balanced gambles in service to higher ideals and dreams. The tips of my fingers are back to catcher's mitt status. Anyone who even hints at the next show to see can assume I'm down or are invited in turn to what I'm doing.

And I know what's next. If we get a $5K or a $50K grant, I know the emails and calls I'm making that day. If we spend the next year getting turned down everywhere I attempt to invest in, I know how often I'll need to spend on the road Door Dashing or how much psychological shit I'll need to eat to take up something hourly. I know what kind of people I'll need to find to translate all of my cunty bluntness into roses people like to sniff regarding their own righteousness. I have over a dozen resumes of people who've expressed excitement at the prospect of working in service to our cause. I have several thousands left of damage I can do to the credit cards, or chunks of my land to sell, or pictures of my butthole for OnlyFans.

You might not need a therapist or counselor if you've been riding this train of creative disposition and accountable practice for decades. The vast majority of us haven't. And we don't even realize we haven't because it's normal to go with the flow and follow prescribed paths. It's normal to not kick up dust and fight and work through the incredibly shitty circumstances on offer. Our sympathies blind and comfort us just as much as any punishment. We are pummeled into submission, suffer indefinitely, and cope in any way we possibly can find. If it's with drugs, we then break the fuck out of the only tool that can reorient the approach and frame. If it's through endless busy-ness and faux-obligations, we rehearse distraction and disembodiment until it becomes normal.

One email. I'm one email away from having established a new floor. I'm one decently-sized grant for an amount of money some organization may not even sneeze at away. I'm a handful of decently-monied individuals partnering up. I'm a few hires of "This has deeply touched me" individuals away. The train is moving. Which one are you on?

[1092] Another One

I went out tonight. I didn't just see a show and rush home. I went out, then I went to bar after bar, nursing a beer while listening to the different crowds.

The first bar I sat next to a couple that pushed me to develop a comedy bit in my head. An "artsy" type was talking to a girl who was practically playing a character in her flirty responses to the things he was saying. You might imagine a normal person saying something like, "It's funny how you say that." This guy said, "I'm thinking about the comedy and introspection with which you responded to what I said. I'm picking up on…." I can't make that up. The bartender at that bar is why I go. He's a jovial, but tactless, generally enthusiastic person who appreciates music and quipping on pop culture. He was particularly displeased with a number of the clientele while I was there.

I left and went to the bar I would normally go straight to if I had an inclination to be out. It was packed. I didn't talk to anyone there either, but sat next to a group who, on their best day, I would have been annoyed with. What I describe as "pedo clothes and look" types who don Jeffrey Dahmer glasses and mustaches that certainly invented the concept of irony. I saw too-drunk types I reasoned I wasn't in the mood to ingratiate towards. There's always a group of insecure boys who eye pretty girls for too long that just didn't register as "fun." I nursed my beer, and left pretty quickly after, offering my salutations to the still-alive door man Mike.

I hoofed it to what was previously my primary bar back in the day. It's evolved, having renovated its bathroom and expanding its outdoor porch space. Here, I started talking to someone.

David is a 43 year old who considers himself something of a second fiddle to his girlfriend of 5 years who he thinks will be president of the university one day. He spoke about anger towards his father, now deceased, and his mother's fascist behavior. He was clearly intelligent enough to engage in a fair amount of introspection, but as dodgy as it gets when you attempt to nail him down to explore a specific feeling. I got him to do every single thing people do when they register you're smart, listening, and dialed in to the explanations they're offering.

At one point in our conversation, I asked him whether it was ADHD or a practiced habit to introduce some random thing to talk about when I make the offer to extrapolate a feeling. He made that face people do. That, "Oh, hmm, fuck, I never considered that, but ya know…hmmm, I don't know." He claimed ADHD, but it was avoidance through and through. He's angry at his dad. He doesn't know why his mom advocates for Trump. He's smart enough to entertain and understand my evolutionary psychology explanations, but, in his heart of hearts, he doesn't trust himself to accept and work with any given answer to a question, let alone the correct ones.

He dropped his glove off the porch and I had to pee. The conversation naturally concluded and he shook my hand, speaking to his deep appreciation that we spoke. I can only hope he doesn't return to his girlfriend provoked and insecure about the questions raised, but she may be better off if he doubles down on his worst tendencies.

This morning, I was contacted by one of my old Groups members. Some form I filled out for her needed tweaking or updating. I asked how the new counselor was doing and I got, "She's not you." This is from a client who was one of the more over-the-top professions of her desire and "definitely going to" sign up with me. The thing is, I believe her. I think she knows and believes there are plenty of polite, educated, nice-enough counselors who are not, and will not, do what I do. I don't think that is compelling enough to pick me over them.

Still, whether it's guys like David at the bar, or the tone of voice from a former client, I can't help but to think, "I'm good at what I do." I have tens of thousands of hours introspecting, asking questions, and studying psychological and philosophical schools of thought. I'm genuinely curious and literally have little voices and instincts that come up as people are talking to me. I've seen the pattern, or a fair version of it, I know the next question to ask, and I know the consequences of not doing so.

I didn't want to get wasted and crash into people's conversations tonight. I did want to be engaged in something more than passively watching a show or drinking for its own sake. I took my time. I waited for the person who organically was drunk/conversational enough to flow into my space, and then I went to work. If I'm "meant" for anything, it's articulating these patterns for people. It's making you make that face.

I also thought, this morning, as I was marathoning my movies and shows, that that's precisely what I wish to be doing. I want to watch the next thing as earnestly and consistently as I've wanted to do anything. I want to watch all of the Jackie Chan movies, and 007s, and foreign films on lists only cinephiles give a fuck about. I want to do that more than pay off debt or work a job. I want to play my instruments and fuck about on the land more than resemble "responsible adult" slogging away at a job he hates to keep the bills paid.

I felt like I was finally getting the order of operations correct. Keep watching, sleeping when I feel tired and waking up when I wish, and then working just enough. I'm not looking for a useless commute and 40 hours. I'm not looking for overtime. I'm looking to be left alone to fuck about as I see fit. If right now that costs $500 a month, that's 3-5 days Door Dashing and 25 days fucking about as I see fit. Meanwhile, I'm still investing in Upwork people to market, fundraise, connect me with people I'd never find alone, and work to build the environment that more monetarily substantially allows for me to fuck about.

They don't tell you that once you arrive, the responsibility and conversation shifts. You get the goal, now what? I have a very opaque idea of what constitutes "winning" while I'm doing it. My tolerance for risk and debt are pretty goddamn high. I'm not obligated to feel guilty that I'm doing what I enjoy with my ever-fleeting time. I'm not in denial about the practical waters I must dip into to sustain, but I feel I'm getting used to having broken the psychological chains trapping me to certain narratives on which thoughts to prioritize. It's liberating if you can trust you're not just going insane.

I mind the idea of Door Dash less when I think about what I'm focusing on when I'm not doing so. I mind debt less when I know it's going to be to see shows I might have a once in a lifetime opportunity to see. I'm already home. I don't need to get blackout drunk to find the conversations I'm good at. I don't need undue or naive validation to trust what I can provide is valuable. I'm not looking for someone to show me the door I'm unwilling or unable to find or walk through myself. I'm exactly where I've chosen to be, and continue to choose to be, every day, and I'm seeing how it plays out as a dramatic contrast to literally every other thing on offer. Of course it feels "off" or "wrong" or "incomplete." You're not here with me as a sounding board, or when you are, you don't tell me I'm wrong.

[1086] Fixing

Let's try to capture the mood over the last few weeks before my "day" gets started.

Why is "day" in quotes? It's 4:39 PM. I've been out of bed approximately 15 minutes. I haven't been precisely asleep all day, but finding the reasons or motivation to leave my bed were not forthcoming. It's been that way, off and on, since the middle of October.

Having developed the habit of "just get the ticket," even though I left my job, I didn't precisely cease spending money. I left before I paid off debt. I left, not precisely in a reactionary way, but I couldn't ignore the consequences their behavior was having on my disposition and willingness to choose shittier ways of expressing myself.

Practically, while if I kept the job, I could still reasonably say something like, "I'm only 5.66 months of paychecks in debt," now, for that to remain true, I'm staring down sitting in my car in service to Grub Hub or Door Dash all day until I hit $100.

I want to make sure I'm very clear about one thing. I don't regret any show I've been to. I don't regret any instrument or tool I have. Whether I was $5,000 or $50,000 in debt, if, as modern reporting indicates to me, we're all in debt, I feel, hopefully not "delusionally" good, that mine is in service to creative options, hobbies, and things that don't aggravate anxiety or anger. I don't dread the 1 to 12 hour round-trip drives to the venues. I'm not cursing myself for standing in the cold before the show. I don't look at my band T-shirts and go, "You fucking idiot!"

 
If our system means practically inevitable debt to live a remote semblance of a "middle class" lifestyle, if this be my lot, so be it. My house is literally a series of combined sheds. I drive very old cars. I have no children. I have no mortgage. I have no health insurance. I have the opportunity to have as much fun with my fleeting youth as possible before I either get sick, some new tragedy befalls the world, or I proverbially break and tame my spirit to work indefinitely in service to something I hate, is "beneath me," or "poisons my soul."

You should know, I do attempt to think creatively about how to work in a field or on something that doesn't fill me with unyielding drad. I think maybe I write a bunch of letters to creators and artists I admire and see if they have some kind of position I could occupy. I mean it when I say I don't need much. Even a relatively small Youtube channel who is getting sponsored might stand to need an assistant, right? Maybe I do the same thing with different bands I like. With 2 thoughts around 1 idea, I've opened up hundreds of letters or emails to send.

What do I say then?

"Hey! I like what you do a ton. I respect [x y and z] and [such and such] has meant a lot to me because of my [personal anecdote]. I'm wondering if there's any spot I might fit to help out? I mean as a job, in any way, big or small. I want to see you succeed and concurrently learn more about how you do what you do. I'm [all the ways I'm amazing, but humble.] I've had every kind of job from scrubbing toilets as a generalized social worker to working for The Department of Child Services investigating crisis situations and resolving gigantic interpersonal logistic problems.

I currently live in the middle of nowhere Indiana and have wide open availability. I'll be real with you, I'm sending some version of this out to well over 100 artists, bands, or creatives that I admire, but will never simply ignore or not respond to anyone that hits me back. I genuinely wish to change the direction of my life by plugging into the work of creating more than coping, and there's so many worthwhile operations in effect I have to believe deserve what I can bring more than my past work environments.

And just as a show of good faith, if you have some task you'd like me to work out to prove my timeliness, communication, or sincerity, please send it along. I'm a complete stranger reaching out from the abyss. I suspect we'd both prefer my work speak for itself."

Think that works?

In the meantime, I'm still waiting to hear whether or not the non-profit gets its tax-exempt status. I believe one or two more grants have been submitted or are pending submission once we get the letter. I still can't find a replacement therapist for supervision and billing. I have an appointment Tuesday with a new client. And I've made $58 from Grub Hub, $20 of which I spent almost immediately the same day. I put in 6-12 applications depending on how explicitly fake you wish to consider some of the listings. I have a 16-day streak of reading at least 1 article each day, 23-days of reading at least a chapter, 17-days of doing squats, and 11-days of practicing an instrument for at least 30 minutes.

I started the habit-tracking in October. They say it takes 3 months to develop a habit. Just because you theoretically can do something "more" than you are, that's not the task or point. The point is the consistency and overcoming the resistance to introducing a new behavior. The closer I've paid attention to this distinction, the easier it's been to "feel right" in engaging the practices. I've finished 12 books, done 1,100 squats, read 110 articles, and played for 44 hours that I promise I wouldn't have otherwise without this app and setting the bar so low.

One of the things that persuaded me to quit my job was an ongoing reminder to myself that there's "infinite work." There are thousands and thousands of people within driving distance who have work to do, work they may or may not even be good at, and work they would be just as if not more likely than me to pay someone to do, if they knew how to find that person. Statistically, if you put yourself out there long enough, you will land somewhere. I cannot trap myself into thinking I "have to" work some menial miserable job always playing catch-up to debt. It's just irrational and wrong. It can just be hard to be your own cheerleader, especially when you spend 99% of your time alone with cats.

I suppose I need to pull up a spreadsheet and get to tracking down the contact information of people I admire. If I can get reading, practicing, eating, and shitting out of the way first I'll have that much less ADHD distractions that feel like conflicting "should do" things. It's now 5:26 PM. I think I've started this day fairly productively.

[1084] Bad Company

I've taken to expressing frustrations via vlogs, but unless I'm particularly worked up, it's not proving to be as in depth as I need to if I'm looking for courses of action to take.

I felt utterly defeated downloading apps like Grubhub and Doordash. To be sure, I'm not "above" or "against" working really any kind of job. I am reaching levels of properly desperate or crisis in considering how much more of my effort or time I'm going to have to waste in order to keep my head above water. I can't stop myself from reflecting on how I wish I had better or more consistent manifestations of what I consider to be my worth.

The thought occurred to me that I've always excelled at things which have already been set up. School? Read this, answer that, memorize a little here and there. Easy as pie. Work environments? Even shitty ones that have a set schedule or series of required repeatable metrics for "success," I will master your system, software, or process in 3 months, make it more efficient by 6, lament how it's killing me for the next 6 and then depending on how messy my life outside of the work environment may be, quit, or suffer until I break in larger ways.

I'm not good at the "start-up" stuff. There's too many things I can't control for. I can't make people respond to me. I can't know the amount of ways I'm getting taken advantage of, like with our rent at the mall or lazy lawyer I consulted. I can't keep the faith for anyone else I'm hoping to work with. All of my projects are extremely fragile or amateur. Everything I've attempted on the land, while it functions, and certainly has met some of my goals, is explicitly "me." I would never expect a "normal" person to live like I do, nor would I create something for someone else that functioned like how I live.

This is a daily visceral contrasting set of experiences. At one level, I'm a guy with a litany of unique skills, experiences, and beliefs about his potential. At another, I'm proper random chaos who can't keep his attention on anything for longer than a few hours, so projects are half-complete, sacrifices in comfort are made, and when ruts hit, all of the potential I'm surrounded by turns into antagonism. Right now, I have 8 computer screens in front of me. There's a scammy rental fractional-investing video from a course I need to just put to bed. There's 2 different TV channels, 2 Spotify instances (as I'm in the middle of a huge downloading project for my dad), a Coursera page, and a window with some light research on more potential remote jobs.

Just beyond these screens is my digital drum set, guitar, piano, Invincible compendium, and 10 game systems, not including Candy Crush from 1 of my 2 phones. All of it, in some way, calls to me every minute of every day. When I can do something for someone else or have a genuine reason to leave the house, it nestles away somewhere comfortable. When I'm home, which is where I wish to be generally speaking, any time I'm not doing one of those things, I feel like a wasteful cunt. I think about the people getting bombed and shot. I think about the people working themselves to death and never seeing their families. How can I exist for a single solitary second not feeling a deep appreciation for my circumstances and a willingness to do whatever I must to keep it going?

I think some version of that framing is why people get trapped under impossible-to-fix and irrational guilt. I don't feel guilty. I feel like a cunt. That framing suggests that your disposition should be dictated by your ability to engage in "self-care," or more accurately "indulgences" and "privileges." I genuinely want to learn and feel confident in every instrument I own. I don't want to at the expense of any and everything else I might focus on or do. It's okay not to be playing until my fingers bleed. And, for what it's worth, no one's misery ever, under any circumstances, has anything to do with your responsibility for getting out of a funk, enjoying something, or framing it in a way that you can avoid unnecessary guilt.

My whole mood changes in an instant when I can start imagining doing whatever is "next." I'm feeling stuck in the counseling crap? Can I envision buying an ATM route and breaking even in 2 years? That, almost perfectly random, thought brought on from reading reddit comments about B2B businesses and "unsexy" things people do to make millions gets the juices flowing. I spent 30 hours finding out a YouTube business course was ridiculous. How far into Coursera and how many certifications do you think I could get in 30 hours? How about a 2 weeks of working like I do? I'm over here trying to dodge remote customer service jobs, what if I started the new year in IT?

I'm not very disciplined. What I am is a trickster. I will trick myself by building an environment that facilitates with less concerted effort. The party house was a perfect "If you build it, they will come" kind of thing. Part of the reason the land projects stagnate is because it has only been remotely the kind of environment I envisioned with Allie was out here, and we saw how that went. All this stuff I'm surrounded by is my velvety-barred prison. When I get desperate or restless enough, I get really really good at whatever's in front of me. That can be researching and reading, binging, cleaning/organizing, playing, etc.

What to pick, and why? At a very important level, most of what I'm doing each day isn't speaking to something "more." I don't have to get any better at my instruments. I can play exactly everything Jack Johnson can if that's the kind of musician I wished to be. I beat the shit out of probably 100 or more games before I pretty much stopped gaming entirely for years. What are these "new" ones really bringing to the table? If I get these certifications, I'm guaranteed to be paying $50 a month, but the job prospects? Anyone's guess. TV is ole reliable. Half these jobs I'm applying for are just engines for email spam. I know I'm going to feel absolutely ridiculous leaving my house to drive food around only to come home hours later with maybe $100.

I really do need money though. My debt situation is starting to get to a point where I'm wondering if my internal sense of crisis is driving the car I don't want into another totalizing accident. I'm still enjoying all of the stuff it's servicing, but I probably shouldn't buy anything for 6 months with a decent job, let alone the seemingly inevitable crap I'm going to find myself enmeshed in by whomever is willing to hire…and I probably should still dash on the side. 

I came out here to escape "normal" life trappings, and that's proving to be way harder than I thought. Namely because even living like I do, say I did absolutely nothing fun, bought no toys, and just collected paychecks. You know how much money I'd have right now? $4,481. 15 months of 40 hour weeks. ZERO nights out. ZERO band-ts. ZERO tickets for friends or my dad. Just me, my job, and my humble abode, in 15 months of wasting gas and time and enabling people, I could in this imagined future be just shy of $5,000 if I went even further and hit the food bank!

Let's get my savings up just a bit higher. Let's kill any remote ambition regarding the counseling business. There's another $2,000. Let's make all my meals at home. Another $4,000. Nix the home insurance. $1,000. Now we're talking. Be a literal hermit who gets amazing at ramen variations and I could be sitting fat and happy on $12,000 right now! I made $10,000 for 2 spinal taps,  a 5 day stay and 6 or 7 brief follow-up visits doing drug studies.

How does anyone who has to pay rent do it? How does anyone with kids do it? And whether I had $4,000 or $12,000 right now, say I get sick and needed to hit an emergency room, in a heartbeat all the time spent working and sacrificing is snuffed out. How do you not just live in a place of "Fuck it, I'll do what I want?"