Morning Reports

DAY 24

It wasn’t late but it’s not 7am.

I figured out what my perfect alarm would be, and now that I think about it this will definitely be a feature when brain chip implants roll out.

I’d have Shia Leboeuf doing the triangle-genital-chi-awakening chanting “just do it”. Don’t let your dreams be dreams.

Steering away from the brain implant subject… I don’t like it.

I have little energy this morning. It feels like I didn’t finish my dream, like I left the gas stove on and drove away. It’s nagging me to go back to sleep to close the pipes.

Good spinal stretch to straighten the crooked line, realign the sections and get the blood flowing correctly.

I do know what I need to completely unjam the mechanics but it might not be plausible right now.

I’ll be back.

Nope. I’ll find a work around later on.

(Awful transition to today’s self-assessment thoughts)

I don’t like money.

Yes, I need it like everyone else, and I do feel great when my bank account has healthy digits on. But there’s zero drive towards it. I find it completely uninteresting.

I have very little admiration for people that made money fast, inherited it from their family or were relentlessly business-driven to accumulate vast amounts of treasure.

How do you move with all that weight in your pockets?

Some dudes would show off in their loud cars, fake tans and heavy watches, absolutely convinced that they’ve just mastered fire. Expecting you to drop your panties so hard they would explode into a crater on contact.

But my instinctive response is feeling sorry for their terrible deformity. And unfortunately, everyone has the potential to develop this unsightly growth that prevents them from seeing the world.

I don’t think this stems from any frustration on my side. I’ve been like this for as long as I can remember, and it is very isolating.

Hubby would excitedly tell me about this new business idea and relish at the thought of the potential riches to be harnessed.

But it just makes me shrug and I have to force a supportive “that’s great love!”. I like that he’s excited about something but I couldn’t care less about the financial prowess.

This makes me a lousy bread-winner. If I hate what I’m doing, no amount of money would buy satisfaction. I’d be a terrible sales-person.

I was horrified to realise that the giant inflatable unicorn in the office of my last job, that I mistakenly took as a wonderful omen, was there to symbolise their money drive.

What a shitshow.

I should have left the moment they explained what it meant. I should have known they would take a shit of my soul everyday, as I observed awesome colleagues turning into money-making zombies that never reached their targets.

Ping-pong and Friday beers, my ass.

And there I was swimming against the current, trying to make my team understand that respecting their time was the most basic factor in job happiness.

I was such a bad fit. French children riding a dead unicorn, pretending that being a pirate was glamorous and beers were magical potions.

Nah… I don’t like money.




Writing as a reality test to check if I’m still alive. It usually works. I thought I’d share the experience :)

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Writing as a reality test to check if I’m still alive. It usually works. I thought I’d share the experience :)

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