Most of my time on this spinning space ball is consumed with figuring out how to get paid just to exist. In other words, to be me.
Like many people contorted in the strange, disturbing digital-technology dance, I desperately claw and bite toward the promised land of passive income.
Once achieved, I can spend my time stroking local cats or sitting on a porch whittling wooden figurines, enough benjamins in my bank account to do some serious pottering around each day.
It’s not that I desire sexy cars or humongous houses – rather, I want to buy the freedom from expectation and obligation. No more listening to twatty clients or contending with undesirable tasks.
My first foray into getting paid to exist was setting up another website – definitely on a topic I’m interested in, but with one main drawback…
I’m rather identifiable on that website, meaning I’m playing the social game of acceptance, watering down much of the content for non-threatening public consumption. Though the writing is good, it’s only one part of the majestic creature that is me.
My raw, unadulterated, cynical side is angry that it doesn’t get to express its full sarcastic self. Instead, I have to stay on brand, appeasing the search engine algorithms and any businesses who might one day consider me professional enough to pay.
So that’s why I’m here, penning more diary-like entries, because this is the content I personally enjoy reading and the types of articles that by writing, make me warm and fuzzy inside.
Am I expecting it to make me enough cat-stroking money? Not really. Am I hopeful that one day it might? Absolutely. So if you want to be my sugar momma or dadda and buy me nice things, feel free.
Then I can sit on my porch, wooden figurine friends in hand, fully indulging the nihilistic vortex of despair.