Lollapalooza, Bonnaroo, Coachella, Pitchfork, etc.: I have no desire, nada, to go to any of them. Partly because I don’t care about a lot of the music (get off my lawn), but mostly because spending two days in the hot sun with a zillion strangers, $8 water bottles, and 120º porta potties sounds like exactly how I’d sketch out Hell. Pass.
The faces and poses that the fashion/advertising industry usually has female models strike to be “sexy”—you know, the “come hither” look—are ridiculous to me, bordering on hilarious. Just stand or sit or walk like a normal person and smile. That’s sexy.
I shouldn’t complain about my job when so many people don’t have one. But I’m really having a hard time. The role of manager where I work is 100% managing, 0% production, and I’m not used to not delivering at least some stuff with my own hands. I have to find a way to be happy exclusively enabling others to deliver (and to be sure I’m actually doing that) or I’m gonna lose it.
And since rust never sleeps, this lack of hands-on work terrifies me in an industry where two years is a generation. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll next be mopping floors overnights at a VC-funded dot com whose name is a made up word, or making coffee for kids 1/3 my age.
It’s possible to love your kids but still hate being a parent sometimes. Right?
If I had it to do all over again, I’d have gone to med school and been a completely kick-ass doctor. General practice—dealing with people all day and hearing their problems, but not necessarily seeing their inside parts all red and wet and throbby-like.
Nigel was wrong but only by a half step: C# minor is, in fact, the saddest of all keys.
I’ve been dealing with a slight case of stage fright here since #chsh, but I’m powering through it. It’s what I do.
YOU DO NOT KNOW OF THE TRUE SUFFERING IN PORTAPOTTIES. Do you know how hard and hot it is when you’re already sweating then to have to exert TOO MUCH energy desperately trying to keep any of your privates off that GERM INFESTED SEAT? I THINK FOR NOT