The Grind

I feel unpleasantly today.

Last night, a friend told me about a local graphic design gig. Last night, I was sort of happy about it. This morning, I came to the realization that I don’t want it. I really don’t like graphic design, not to mention it isn’t the most stable of careers.

After that, I developed this nasty, unpleasant feeling. I think this is what’s called being “lost” and not in the forever-long television series sense.

I honestly, really, truly have no fucking idea what I want to do. I have an English degree, which basically means I can do everything, but there’s nothing I want.

I thought I wanted to be a graphic designer, but after 2 years of pointless courses I realized I hated it. I thought I wanted to be a journalist, but there’s nothing out there for a quirky, artsy girl, at least not where I live. Everything I’ve seen calls for technical writers or legal writers, and I’m not one of them. I thought about teaching, but really I find even the idea of it boring and even if I didn’t, I’d want to teach at college level which requires a whole different set of skills and degrees and I have enough crippling debt.

I think I’m afraid of being bored, which makes me afraid that I’m stuck. I don’t have the guidance I need to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. Or at least what I’m supposed to be doing that won’t send me into a homicidal rampage. Mom suggests secretarial work; I’d rather not.

And who came up with the phrase “real job” anyway? Hooking is a real job. Construction is a real job. Working at a grocery store is a real job (and steadier than hooking AND construction). Hell, looking for a full-time job IS a fucking full-time job.

I always thought things would be simple: go to college, get degree, find job, work until death. And then I realized what I said in my last post. I’m not meant for the standard 9 to 5. If painting or dancing or yoga-instructing isn’t for everyone, why is it expected that “standard” jobs are?

This unpleasantness is really, well, unpleasant. It’s affecting my work: I’ve not been a good 1,000 words-a-day novelist. I haven’t been contact juggling. I haven’t been playing poi. I’ve just been stalking the internet and doing nothing. I can’t seem to unwind from all the pressure, and even “om-ing it out” doesn’t seem to help. I have a dance show on Saturday, and I want to give it my all, but I’m afraid this unpleasantness is creeping into everything.

Self-doubt is the artist’s fucking Kryptonite.

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