Moving on

- Investment banking (miserable but gadgetry is a plus) to business school to finance shop (miserable possibly) to corporate strategy to own company (failure possibly) - Investment banking (blah blah) and/or finance job to business school to public policy job in developing nations - Freelance agency producer (hand-to-mouth) to advertising producer (boredom and/or meager living possibly) - Freelance agency producer to film production assistant (non-livable wages for eons) to film production (failure is big) - Architecture school (five years or less) to architect (meager wages for a long time without assurances of desired position) to own company - Journalism school (no experience so most likely a crappy position is needed before) to journalist (lifelong position possibly) to editorship and/or analyst job - Writer (uh huh) - History masters/phD (long stint in academia) to public policy possibly - Depend on mom and dad till they die then maybe mooch off brother Things to consider: Time usage/waste, purchasing power now versus later, purchasing power priority/non-priority, life outside of work v. work complementing life, travel, dog, geographical preference, parents, personal welfare and happiness now, tomorrow, and in the long-run (risk)

The perks of nothing

I sat and stared at the grinning ivory totem, gleaming and bare. One hour. One hour and nothing to write. All that is going on and nothing to say. I don't want to say anything. Cause I run in circles and everything that I say has already been said - by me. I'm meandering in this sweaty season of self-indulgence; I make attempts, oh sure, to grasp at any thoughts that might be of substance, but plainly, my forte lies not with thoughts but with thinking, and thinking gets me to nothing cause thoughts are all that matter. In this case, anyways. My head blots. It is full of childhood dreams and adult cynicism. Carved from mishappened and bloodied thoughts. I should know better. I want to know. I wanta fly and float and be with you somehow, I wanta move I wanta dream cause I get psyched from begotten dreams and I wanta know better. I want to see beyond the present and maybe, maybe see grace somewhere. I wanta ask Him, what is it you see, what is it I should do? Choices are my shackles, and if I can only shake this dammed confidence. Grievious. This is my recipe for disaster: confidence stirred and shaken with just a dash of hope in better things to come. I can't get away from it, cause it's the hope that eats at me, that pulls me in impossible directions. I fume and simmer but it gets me nowhere nothing not one thing. I'm still here, but something's got to give.