Hi Darling Ones,

I often like to portray myself as a lackadaisical slacker despite it not being wholly true. When I am finally able to achieve my truest form, this is what I’ll be. The dream of the 90s is always alive in my bitter, jaded GenX heart.

While I frequently come close to achieving my final form sometimes I have to revert to driven career automaton. That might be overstating a bit. It’s more like lackadaisical slacker who is only driven by actual, factual deadlines with an obsessive streak that makes her work endlessly until the thing is done. Or until her brain falls right out of her head and anything she continues to work on isn’t getting anything done.

I used to be super motivated and career-driven. Some of the early posts in this here blog are so cringey now. I was so fucking earnest and took my work very seriously as if we were curing cancer and not launching photo editing software. God, I was such an adorable, annoying dummy. I learned the hard way that Corporate America does not care about me and will not handsomely reward me for giving it all my time and energy and creativity.

This is a very long way to say that I had to work my fucking ass off this week. I worked twenty-five billable hours this week, which is like 50+ office hours. Please do not make me give the billable hours lecture and just trust me that they are different than office hours.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to kick this kind of ass on two different projects for two different clients. It was a good reminder that I still got it and also that working so much in one week makes you really boring.

All I did is work and eat and work and sleep and work and occasionally watch Bob’s Burgers and then work some more. I have no idea what’s going on in the world or on the Internet, except for the “think about the donuts of your day” kid. I caught that because of the donuts, obviously.

I’m like that Lucinda Williams song, I need cool quiet and time to think. I have had zero time to think and that’s what makes everything so boring. The only original thought I had this week was how I needed to stop feeling bad for yelling at Wendell. I don’t yell at him a ton but sometimes he jumps on the counters when I’m trying to cook and starts rubbing his face against a pack of powdered sugar donut holes so hard he knocks them off the counter and we have a powdered sugar mess. That’s when I yell, immediately feel bad, and then apologize.

Why do I feel bad? Yelling at him has never prevented one single iota of his myriad fuckeries. And I know he can hear me. When he comes downstairs and I yell, “What’s up Wendell GEEEEEEEEEEEE?” He jumps on the couch to collect his head scratches. When he’s in the kitchen alone making noise and I say “Knock it off, ding-dong,” he comes into the living to display that he is capable of knocking it off.

Fuck, told you I was boring.

Tediously yours,
Jodi