That Barrel-Chested SOB

DAY FIFTY-THREE: The Pauper Times It Right

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.” - Albert Einstein

Time.  Friend or foe?  Hero or villain?  Protagonist or antagonist?

One of the reasons I quit my job was because I never felt like I had enough time to do the things that I wanted to do.  I was emotionally exhausted by the end of each work day (being a human chew toy will do that to a person.)  So my goal from the minute I walked into my second story apartment was to shut down.  Make an easy dinner.  Pour a glass bottle of wine.  Binge on 30 Rock reruns courtesy of our great, red friend.  There was never any time.  Or at least never the right kind of time.

And here I am, fifty-three days post-decision.  And time has become my mortal enemy in lieu of the barrel-chested companion my heart craved.  

Brought to you in RealD by Time.

Suddenly, there's simply too much of it.  It sits there mocking me for not getting things done.  The financially responsible side of me panics on a daily basis and spends most of the day applying for jobs.

The truth is, I can't say that last statement in earnest.  Yes, there's the panic that hits me in the midst of catching up on Homeland (a lunchtime respite) when my mind wanders into the regions of remembering that rent is due tomorrow while my plane ticket to London shouts insensitive slurs on my credit card bill.  My stomach both drops and jumps inside its connective tissues.  But that's not the whole truth.

Failing at finding a job is the easier option.  If I can't find a more interesting job that I at least somewhat enjoy, it's the easier pill to manage down.  Because it's really just something I want.  But to fail at writing.  To fail at the only thing that really feels like it matters in my life right now.  To fail at my passion.  It's not really something I feel like I can handle.

And so I wait.  I procrastinate.  Until the panic turns into fuel.  Until the rejections turn into some form of mental cocaine.  Until I simply can't handle it anymore.

Happy Halloween, everyone.  I'm not dressing up because right now, I can't think of anything scarier than exactly what I'm doing right now.

Except hillbillies.  Nothing scarier than hillbillies.