It's A Big World Out There

Sometimes I really have to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. Blame it on the A.D.H.D ., but I possess the maddening ability to make on-the-fly decisions without actually stopping to consider the real-world, long-term ramifications of the latest idea of my affection.

 

Granted, it's not like I'm careening, wild-eyed and hopped up on half a dozen lattes, into disastrous oblivion for inane plans like a Tasmanian Devil ass tattoo, or opening the door when the Mormons come to call.

 

But unfortunately, my penchant for throwing caution to the wind and myself out of the proverbial frying pan, slathered in butter, and into the fire, has landed me dead center into the kinds of situations that would make even the boldest of risk takers think they woulda' thought twice.

 

Because, alas, it is not that I possess the sort of devil-may-care j'oie de vivre that accompanies most life on the edge types as they venture boldly into odds-defying, oblivious Homer-like success.

 

I do not.

 

I simply do things cuz I want to.

 

And inevitably, time for the most part has proven that many of my ill- and mostly un-advised headlong moves into the unbeknownst have merely served to make what is, at times, a miserable slow slog of an existence that much harder.

 

And yet… on occasion… while the gapers gawk and wait with bated breath for me to crash and burn, I make a move that may actually turn out for the best.

 

Take my latest life-altering adventure.

 

For those of you following my mind numbing, so-called-career crash and burn in cubic'hell, you are well aware of the manic, torturous moods of Madame Shrill, my most recent keeper.

 

I will admit that the not-so business casual life I've been leading for the last two years is not what I imagined I'd be doing when I finally grew up. And while it was exciting to travel to many of the places in the world I never thought I'd get to, at least not on my starving-artist-in-waiting sub-poverty wages, I hated having to play the game.

 

Get up early, drag myself to the same grey, soulless hole of an office, toil the hours of my life away at slave wages so some fat cat who drives a luxury sedan can make himself look important in front of his fellow fat cats, while I waste my life away selling my creative soul so the corporation can further fill its coffers.

 

Y'know, the same old same old.

 

Add in the abuse at the hands of some power hungry, maniacal she beast who seems to take almost sick pleasure in berating those below her, and it suddenly seems like too much.

 

Much too much, in fact. And so I split.

 

Bailed. Walked. Grabbed my bag, and my stockpile of crackers and canned soups, and ventured out to earn my own goddamn fortune.

 

Oh, of course I know that the kind of cash that will make wiping my ass with dollar bills — and not having to immediately scrub them clean so I can put enough together to make bus fare — will take years to achieve. But deep down I've known for quite some time that if I were to use my superpowers for good instead of greedy evil, I could make enough to live on and have enough time and money left over to actually live, instead of simply managing to get through another day.

 

And so, three weeks into freelance freedom the worry wart that I am still has not managed to make even a peep in the name of uncertainty. Of course, I've traded the steady paycheck and security that's part and parcel of working for the man for a potential total loss, and the bills are, so far, struggling to get paid. But, for the first time in many years, my life is my own.

 

As far as the Shrill, I have to report that I am unsure where she's finding her security these days, for it seems that a few short weeks after I took my leave of her closed door torture chamber, she found herself walking through the same door, under slightly different circumstances…

 

To be continued…