My cats are going to have their first birthday in a week and a half, so that’s pretty exciting. I’m pretty sure they live in a different dimension and I’m not entirely sure how time works there. Sometimes it moves really slow and sometimes it moves very fast, in relation to our time. They’re growing up and sort of learning more about the world, but I’m happy that they’re content with who they are.
In other news, I’m working about 50+ hours a week at a rough average of $11 per hour either producing copy or delivering cookies. The rest of my time is dedicated to spending time with my beloved ones, or putting my apartment together. I’m thinking about starting a jar for couch money.
There’s little things to do, like putting together the dresser that came in, light and curtain solutions, cleaning—especially sweeping, buying dishes and silverware, waiting around for Amazon packages, and even finding a way to dampen sounds. The rooms are white and wood and echo-y. You can hear the a fork clank against the kitchen sink from my bed. I hate uncontrolled sound (although high-pitched echos do have their place in production; my mom always had sharp hears).
If I can get one of two remote jobs doing producing more web content (how did I only find this kind of work; I hate writing), then I can add another 20 hours of work for either $9.34 hour (internship stipend) or $20 an hour (actual part-time job) if I get hired. I have recommendations from both so maybe I’ll get lucky.
But anyways, I’ve only touched my memoir twice in the past two months and that’s depressing. I was actually getting good at it, and then Basic Life Stuff kicked in and all of sudden I was looking for work that I would never find. It sucks how many hours I wasted by not just asking for the job I was already offered and had previously declined. I guess I never really realized how lucky I was to be offered that job, to know someone, to have someone speak up for me.
Honestly that keeps coming up and I am feeling more and more convicted by how much I want to be independent, above every influence and reproach, and completely self-reliant. I keep thinking about leaving my family’s cell phone plan, which is stupid.
But on the religious level I’m talking about wanting to be good instead to do good, wanting to earn my way to heaven or earn whatever love I receive.—which wouldn’t quite be a real love.
On the social level I mean not asking for help, not accepting kindness from strangers or friends, not letting people into my thoughts, not speaking up for what I want - that is, trusting them to hear me out and care about me, or trusting myself to rely on them, or allowing someone to help me, and worst of all sharing 98% percent of who I am so that I can make it seem like 100% so that the 2% that actually matters is omitted, forgotten, unnoticed, and tucked behind false resolution and jokes.
I can hardly share the 2% because I haven’t been journalling or praying through my life in writing, so I don’t know it myself.
I do take seriously the advice from Mr. Bruce that if anyone takes anything seriously they take notes on it. You can’t take your own life seriously if you don’t write about it. You’re too forgetful to just make realizations or synthesize information without having notes to jog your memory. Only about 2-4% of the world is intuitive enough to not do this.
I don’t know what else to say. I also need more glasses, especially drinking water.
I think I’ll tap back into my memoir character after my vacation. I’ll keep writing though here, and maybe elsewhere to warm up. What should I write about though?