What Do You "Do?"

That question. I hate that question. How I pay my bills does not define me, much as I wish it could.

What do I do?

Why, I am a cerebral prostitute.

I whore out my brain for money, M-F, 8-5.

While my brain is otherwise occupied, performing tasks that slowly strangle it in a gray shroud of boredom, my body is forfeit, as it is forced to sit in a chair during that time; getting fatter, slower, more useless. A month ago I started Metformin, because, at age 35, I have insulin resistance. Despite the fact that I sit all day, I am exhausted beyond measure. This body is a carcass, transporting the golden whore-brain to and fro, rather than a living thing. My hands shake constantly. I can't even remember the last time I felt "right."

I am on the "last-resort" antidepressant, an MAO inhibitor. It comes in patch form, and every morning I rip off the patch, and a good portion of my skin, to replace it with a new one.

For the last several months, while I've been away, I made the mistake of listening to the slew of "follow your bliss" bullshit artists, whose line is "do what you love and the money will come." Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. By all rights, I should have gone even more insane from the stink of it. If I had in my possession the physical amount of bullshit I've wasted my time reading, money would no longer be a problem.

You know how they've managed to "follow their bliss and the money came?" They sold volumes of fix-your-life fallacy to suckers like me, who are searching for a little bit of hope.

I am that idiot who bought into the "get a real job, be a grownup, ignore every true thing about yourself" line; believing that being an artist would be the impossible way. Now, I will drag myself onward; waiting to die, always regretting having lived.