A regular client offered me a ten-hour assignment that would’ve needed to be completed in 48 hours—not impossible, coulda worked out nicely and helped out with next month’s rent (for which I’ll be in pretty dire straits), but it was the kind of assignment he’s given me several times before and also the exact kind of assignment where I don’t seem to perform very well, or at least never (not once) to his standards, and hence I incur his wrath—insults and long balking silences and questions about my intelligence—which I’m finally content to say just isn’t worth it. And yes it means doubling down on ramen for dinner and Cuban toast for breakfast/lunch and relegating my happy hours to the $1 Tecate-hour at Redbar.
But so it goes.
I’m inclined sometimes to agree with the Boomer sensibility that Millennials are hypersensitive and that work-life balance, or the championing of comfort and mental health over remuneration, are signs of weakness and hypersensitivity—but I’m also mindful of what Gary Vaynerchuk is often pointing out, about how nobody seems to hate Millennials more than the people who raised and educated them.
So ahdunno. I’m glad I’m not mired in palpitations and despair today, and glad to know I won’t be tomorrow either, but I’m also thinking about what a weight this work would have lifted off my chest for next month.
I’m rounding out the last or second-to-last draft of Philicio Nightly, though. Maybe I can sell that as part of a Rent Party crowdfunder. Something like that.