A post in which I will whine and feel sorry for myself.
For almost the past two years I have worked two jobs: a full-time Monday-through-Friday proposition, as well as a part-time job in which I have worked anywhere from one to three evening shifts on week nights, then two eight hour shifts on alternating weekends.
You know, it's not that much work in the sense that it's about 56 hours per week. I've put that many hours in at one job, easily. I've worked 80 hour weeks. I'm a trooper. I can do it. And I'm willing to do whatever is required. This schedule amounts to 12 days on, 2 days off. 12 days of a minimum of an 8 hour shift, 4 of those 12 days I work 12 hours. Again, I know some people work every day. I know some people have no job and I'm complaining about two.
I just feel like, fundamentally, I am doing it wrong.
I have become fiercely protective of my time off. On evenings that I'm not scheduled to work, I don't want to do anything but go home. I have friends who have weekly or more often gatherings. I show up once every six months or so, mostly because I feel guilty that I'm not around more often. I tell my friends what my schedule is, then when they schedule something on my free weekends, I get pissed. I want to sleep in and do nothing. No demands. No schedules, no rushing off. I need my down time. I need it so that I can recharge and face the world.
I feel neglectful of my pets. I don't like that when I get home at night they want to play and I want to be left alone. I don't like that when they see me in the morning they want to play and I'm trying not to step on them while I rush around trying to get ready for work.
I feel neglectful of my Flower, of my love life. She needs me. Here again I've set my routine up wrong. The time flies away from me. After work, dinner, a TV show or two, reading news, and suddenly it's 11:30 PM. I finally feel relaxed from the day before and I should be sleeping and resting for the day to come, but this is when my mind becomes the most noisy and sleep comes least easy.
By the Tuesday after my weekend off I'm waking up tired, angry, and late again.
I'm doing it wrong.
Where this blog is concerned, I have terrible writer's block. So, instead of writing post after post in which I say nothing, I have chosen not to write. Additionally, I've chosen to rein myself in with regard to writing stuff that's simply about anger and judgement–or worse, boredom. I want my posts to be something that I would find interesting if I were to encounter it randomly surfing from another blog or from a web search.
I've hardly written a word of fiction in three years. Honestly, I'm really stressed about my financial situation. I'm angry at myself that it hasn't gotten better, faster. And frankly if there is any one reason I haven't written erotica, I feel that it's the financial drama that has sucked the sexiness right out of me. And by that I mean that I don't feel sexy when I'm worried about making the paycheck last.
And it comes back to me feeling that I'm doing it wrong.
What keeps me going is that the world does keep turning. For all of my doom, gloom, paranoia and anxiety, the world keeps turning. The Sun keeps rising. Flower keeps choosing to stay with me. And I, and we, have always found a way.
So it is, I get another chance to get it right.
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