I do a job.

I’ve told briefly of my job. That’s about it really. I sell cuisines for a famous Scandinavian marque. It’s a job, it’s getting some money. I’m not really about to profess opinions either way on the matter, because you hear all sorts of things about people getting in trouble for saying something or other about something or other. I’ve been fortunate so far not to get in too much trouble about things I’ve said – and goodness knows that I should have got into trouble for some things that I’ve said, but I have scraped by on minimal readership and my endearing frankness. Or some shit like that.

It’s the very fact of the job that gets me down, though, not the job itself – I don’t like having to do things because I have to do things, I always try to find some excitement in everything I do because I know how easily distracted and bored I get within mere hours and days and months of starting something. I am stuck under my own cudgel, a victim of my own poverty. I live in hope of getting a job somewhere being paid to write, for the chance to live that dream, and although I might be making steps towards that, they are mere baby ones.

I don’t like life when the line blurs between making progress and simply existing – it’s not living, it’s just being. Being is good enough for some people - but I love living, that’s what fuels me. I love adventure and new things and the romance of being alive. The hope of that is not quite enough, I’m left with a slight deficit – but until I can make that up I sell some kitchens and I keep my eyes peeled.