Frugal Demure Humble Amazing

I have not that much going on in my life right now. And I’ve gone through a good deal of positive transformation because of that. I used to need chaos. And a story. I felt like that was the easiest and best way to get attention. I still get enough attention to fill my cup. I definitely get less than I used to, because I’m not shrieking for it. I’m not drinking and dancing and falling down and lamenting for it. I’d rather not get that kind of attention anyways. I’m making way less money, and spending way less. I’m doing way less. I didn’t want to do anything, anyways. I was flaking on everything. I’m happy this way. I am relearning how to want for connection and action. I mean, I still dont want that. But soon I’m sure I will. I want to move back to a city. But I’ll see this chapter through. Like I said, it’s doing what it was meant to do. I’m growing. Like, internally. Because I have Literally Nothing Going On.

Anything I say, I fear I’ve probably said it before in some other way. I tell the same stories, mostly because not much has happened to me lately. But I did that before, I cherry pick my stories to paint myself in that certain kind of glowing light. I tell stories to be informative, kinda, but mostly to be manipulative. When I retell my best stories, I tell them in a different winding way, because I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to bore people, because then they don’t listen. And I not only want listeners, but I want engaged listeners, who will nod and laugh and reply to what I’m saying with something thoughtful, or something funny. I like being engaged with other people, because I am Normal. I like to get along. And I want people to like me.

Sometimes I worry that my meandering storytelling is going to lose some people, too. And thats where I feel like you need to like Me to listen to me. Like, you need to know me and understand me and trust that I’ll get to the point eventually, and it will be worth it, and the whole joinery is entertaining, not just the destination. Thats probably what God thinks about life, too. But I get really bored of life sometimes. Especially lately, since I set myself up to be bored as hell, in order to see if I could entertain myself. And I can. Things are fine. Some people might use the word peaceful, but I don’t really glamorize life enough to use words like that. My life right now is nothing. It is metaphors in my head and different lighting doing the same patterns of things. My life is other peoples moods, and other peoples news. That’s fine. I’d rather that than putting out my own fires. I feel like my whole life has been on fire for the past while. And not just a feeling. It has been news to other people, too, that my life has been on fire. I feel like the embers are just now going out. And I’m like, sitting here. Observing, I guess. If there were more to observe, I’d call it that. But I’m not under stimulated. If I feel that way, I put on music. I sit in silence a lot lately.

I’m not depressed. I’m not Boring. Meditative is maybe the best word. I don’t necessarily want anything to happen. I like thinking about what could, in my head. I don’t really feel like being disappointed any time soon. This is fine. I’m glad I’m here, away from everyone, doing life in a very simple and unexciting way. It doesn’t feel like a punishment for everything else explosive that happened, but it does feel right, like I’m balancing the scales.

I don’t know if you already know this, but the proper way to retell the same stories is to change the perspective, or emphasize new details, or switch up the descriptors. I would advise everyone not to lie and embellish their stories. I think that’s lame. But only because I hate liars, and I am a trustworthy person who tells accurate stories to the best of my ability. I think many people get on very well lying and embellishing, and they are probably far ahead of me in terms of things that matter (money, politics, admiration and respect). I don’t know why I care about having character, because if you’re a good enough liar, it’s probably really easy to get away with having no character, and most of the benefits. Everyone will probably think you’re really awesome if you’re a great liar. Just seems like a difficult skill to hone this late in the game. I was never any good at it. That’s why I’m being honest and saying I have literally nothing to say. Nothing happening, at least. I can always think of something to say.

I used to tell stories where I could paint myself as wealthy, because people at my university cared most about that. They were wealthy, so it was more of a nod and agree and share an anecdote that proves I’m the same, type of story. I wasn’t really lying, because my parents had enough money to where my mom didn’t need to work, and we always had a big-deal Christmas dinner and lots of presents, and a semi-annual family vacation. But this approach to making people like me was kind of exhausting, because I wasn’t that-kind-of wealthy, on the sliding scale of people who I was sharing with. It didn’t take long for me to understand that while I was upper middle class, I didn’t really know what I was talking about when it came to exorbitant amounts of wealth. I gave up on participating in the anecdotes, and started to absorb information instead. That way I could judge other people on the facts I learned, instead of getting judged myself. And I can do this all very quietly, because I actually don’t have much skin in the game. The only benefit of having wealthier-than-you friends is getting to stay at their houses and use their toys. And that can feel kind of awkward sometimes. It takes alot of energy to be a guest, in my opinion. Maybe that is why I am in time-out from life. People who can’t actively participate in something as easy as being a guest need a break from it all, I guess. It’s definitely easier to be quiet. Sometimes an anxiety pangs up in me when I spend too much time alone. I’ll eat a sweet potato and an egg, I’ll stand on the porch while my tea-water boils, and I’ll realize I dont feel like going for another walk. I’ll go back inside and write my blog and stare at the paintings I don’t like much. If I needed to go in public, I could. I know some people, and I’ve had some fun. But I rarely feel like it. Im going to the movies tomorrow, and I’m looking forward to the gummy candy and the popcorn. There will be a friend there. I am going to them movies with my friend. And I’m glad it’s a movie, so we can spend majority of the time together not talking. I like her, she’s sweet, and cute, and I’m glad we are friends. It’s just easier not to talk.

So I listened in college, and I pay attention at the members club I work at here in Colorado, and I know the signifiers. I know the behavior of the ultra wealthy. Some of it disgusts me, and then I realize that is a measure of the person, not their wealth. I also want to be wealthy. But I dont really need to talk with the wealthy all that much, even though that’s networking. Only because it’s not my life right now, I am an NPC mountain-club server, and I am just observing and making notes of things to pay attention to in the future, when I’m participating again. My life is very quiet, even in a loud room. I don’t smile that much. If someone is funny in the kitchen, I laugh. I’ve snorted laughing in the kitchen recently. I love when that happens, even though it’s embarrassing, and it’s on accident. But I don’t smile to be polite to the mountain club members. It takes too much energy, and I don’t mean it. I don’t need to ping pong my own anecdotes to be valid in a room. I don’t need to have a personality all of the time. The more I’m removed, the more I can be observant. Talking can be so obnoxious sometimes. Existing is obnoxious sometimes. I’m so used to shrieking and having people pay attention to me, that I never got to appreciate the observers chair. It’s not boring. I see more details from here.

Lately I don’t really know what people care about, even though I’m paying good-enough attention. It seems like it’s different for everyone, and it shifts a lot. The more it shifts, the more im able to impose my own ideas about somebody onto them. There’s a blank space between stances where I can shove my projected beliefs about this person onto them. It’s how learn to love or hate somebody. I never do this to somebody who I don’t care much about. If I don’t care about them, I don’t even notice they’ve shifted. It sucks, too, because I hate to hate somebody. Then it becomes painful to look at them, or to listen to them.

I’ve noticed I gravitate towards people who don’t care that much about wealth, but have enough wealth to be happy and live an interesting life with interesting perspectives and bright eyes. Some of the club-members are like this. Others are angry and rude, and I don’t really know what’s wrong, because they could buy a new life with the annual membership fee. It’s kind of tacky (read: I can’t really relate, and I don’t know what I’m talking about).

I probably came off as super tacky when I tried to talk about wealth, when I didn’t have a van clef bracelet on my arm, or a designer bag, or some other form of material validation. It makes me cringe. I don’t know if anyone else noticed, and I really hope they didn't. I can’t even remember how often it happened, but in my mind it is a big ink stain that smears over the entire timeline of my life. I always let my brain blow up the bad parts. I don’t know why I do that. I should try to stop doing that.

I know that any story I tell is to make me seem either desirable, or self aware. I do this when I feel least desirable, or when I’m feeling out of touch and misunderstood. I try to fill the empty space between what someone is perceiving about me, and what I feel I actually am. Like I’m prodding someone into loving me instead of projecting some sort of negative judgement into that empty space. I have so much empty space in my life right now, since I have nothing going on. It’s uncomfortable to think that people are perceiving me based on my mannerisms or my looks or my body, when I’m not filling them up with words and stories.

I feel like it’s obvious that I’ve been spending all my free time thinking about myself. But I also spend most of my time thinking about myself anyways, even if it’s occupied time.

I did notice that I have never been more single in my life, for example. Don’t get me wrong, guys with bad breath and unbrushed hair will ask for my number in the mountain-bars. And I will give them my number. But I won’t answer their texts, because I would rather not disrupt the stagnation I have right now. I miss living in a city. I feel like an external buzz makes the internal stagnation feel less blank. But then again, the disconnect might feel uncomfortable. I wouldn’t really know, because I’ve never felt this blank. I’m not depressed.

Anyways, I went through a long chunk of time where I mostly wanted to talk about every guy I’ve ever dated. Probably half for myself, to remind myself what it felt like to be coy and desired, and what it felt like to actually want a person in return (kinda). It is nice to sleep next to a warm body, and it’s nice when somebody makes space in their life to spend with you, priority number 1. I am my own priority number 1 right now, so I don’t really want for another person. Another persons moods and news can be disruptive sometimes, if it interrupts the undivided positive attention and validation im looking for from them. If im being completely honest. I’m really good at prioritizing people in return, and making them feel special (if I want to) so I don’t feel bad saying this. But with the retrospective storytelling lately, about dating, when it’s been years, was fucking weird. It didn’t take long for me to check myself. I hate being weird, and out of touch. Like, living in a fantasy, and also forcing other people to know more about me than they probably care to. I’m not sure how much I’d care about one of my friends retrospective love-sagas because my friends don’t really do that to me. I appreciate that, and I should return the favor by not telling my coworker about a guy I dated 4 years ago. She probably does not give a fuck, and she’s being forced to listen, because she sits behind the front desk, and I corner her there when things are slow at work. Or I used to. Like I said, I catch myself. My own words are mostly the only thing that echoes in my head lately. The conversations I have are mandatory coworker talk, for the most part. If anything, I get paranoid sometimes. If anything.

I clock this projective-storytelling in others, too. It’s obvious that the stories people tell are mostly to fill their own holes. I think it’s a protective thing. Like, you tell someone about the time where things where opposite of how they are now, and likely much better. I’ve gotten quieter since I’ve noticed this. I am defensive, and I am paranoid, but I don’t want somebody to pick up on that on their own. I want to be able to tell them, so we are in on this together. It’s our secret, how I’m feeling.

I’m not a quiet person. I do like sharing my secrets with people. And I still do. I just don’t chatter as much as I used to. I’m not that excited to fill holes about myself. I was very porous when I was at my chattiest, and my insecurities were probably very obvious to the people around me. Thats probably why I got a thick skin, too. I made myself so vulnerable without even realizing it. And people aren’t that nice, actually. They like to scissor your holes until you’re one giant void. Just to see if they have the power to do it. It’s easy to do things like that, when you’re moving so fast. I’m glad I’ve slowed down recently, because I think it has made me more empathetic. Though I was never one to try to stab a void into somebody, because I got bullied when I was in middle school. That also made me more empathetic. I think it also sped me up times ten, because I had a giant void of insecurity that I felt the need to rebuild with words. It must be built up again, now that I think of it. Pretty recently, actually. I just got comfortable being quiet. It must mean that.

Sometimes writing makes me want to cry my eyes out. I want to pull every string out of myself, tangled as anything, I don’t care. I put tangled wire headphones in my ears with the crazy nest of a knot dangling under my chin. But when I put everything out online, there it is, and I can’t take it back. I like my writing when I pull it out of myself, it feels like a relief. Then it’s on the paper, and I’m like: what the fuck is that. I feel that way about the human experience, too. I’ll be having a lot of fun, and I look back and want to spit on the memory. It disgusts me. I want to get better about this. Train my brain or something. It’s a disgusting way to feel. But that has been my experience thus far, and it still is, and I do hate my last few blog posts. And thats why there hasn’t been another one. And I have been feeling pretty great recently, so I figured I could write something great. But I think there’s an endless sticky wad of something terrible in me. I wonder if I could pray it away.

Most things I say are regurgitated from myself, mashed up with something someone else said and slightly reworked. I want to be a positive-ish person, so I like to sprinkle a positive spin on things, even if it’s only to rework my jumbled brain. It feels rude sometimes, to do this. But I don’t care. I’m not forcing anyone to engage with my content, or know me. I am a big fan of pretending like certain people don’t exist. Even if I kind of like them and kind of am off put by them. Or if I’m kind of jealous of their lives because it’s the life I want and the life I’m aiming towards and the life I don’t have yet. I just pretend the person doesn’t exist. I think this is very healthy to attaining goals, because it’s like eliminating obstacles. There are endless slots to fill, and if you imagine someone else is filling your slot (they’re not) then you will think there is not an open slot to work towards (not true!) So I just say shit about my hopes and dreams to hold myself accountable. I would hate to read about someone else’s hopes and dreams, personally, I would want them to shut the hell up and go to sleep. So I could train while they slept, and steal their slot. That is the kind of freak I am. So I have to pretend people don’t exist, and I have to live in an echo chamber, and only seek out things that act as a confirmation bias. This is good because it has to be; I allow myself to absorb things, and I urge myself to change (slightly) and more importantly, to improve. I’ve taken so much inspiration from the people around me that I am very much a kadeliascope of everywhere I’ve been and everyone I’ve met. That’s not a unique thing either. I guess if someone really looks up to a sibling or a parent their entire life, they walk under that same umbrella, and kind of stay the same. I haven’t been like that. I like my family, but I don’t think I’m very much like them. I prefer to draw inspiration from everyone else, actually, and my family keeps me grounded.

Until recently, I have always wanted to see myself from everyone else’s perspective. Because I was absorbing so much from everyone, I guess. I figured that would be the most grounding thing. But that isn’t true. I kind of only want to see myself from the perspective of people who love me most. Loving me most doesn’t mean agreeing with me all of the time, either. Because when I sabotage myself and when I act like an asshole, the people who love me are honest enough with me to say: Hey, what the fuck. And sometimes I have a rebuttal to that, and get defensive, but ultimately I can see from their perspective. Not because it’s the same as mine, but because I hold them close enough to borrow their binoculars.

For this reason, I’m glad I’ve weeded out a lot of the filler-people in my life. I used to love being in crowded rooms, and being glanced at by so many eyes. I don’t care for that much anymore. I prefer to be seen by a few eyes, and I prefer to sit in a comfortable chair, and have breathing room. I think a desire for comfort goes hand in hand with aging, because I used to feel fine sleeping on a couch, as long as the house was in proximity to the cool places to be (read: the Hamptons). Probably out of insecurity. I always thought people knew better than me, and their style seemed cooler and more effortless, and life did not seem to make them squirm as much as it made me squirm. Other people seemed to walk with more ease, and it didn’t seem hard for them to work a room, or to sit in a room observantly, if that was more their vibe. I am outgoing, but uncomfortable. I think I’ve always felt slightly uncomfortable. Up until recently, because I am training myself. Like a dog.

I said the perspective thing about a week ago in a tiktok, and now I disagree with myself. I want to be unaffected by the opinions of other people, so I am working on that. I take my brain to boot camp all of the time, and it works. I keep having these mental glow ups. I keep outdoing myself like that. I want to be humble when I say that, so Ill admit: I have alot of stupid takes. I still find it annoying that you google “Kelley Dicso” and a bunch of those stupid takes come up. Why dont more of my smart takes come up? No one wants to give me credit for that, because many people don’t want others to succeed. I’m also convinced that I have a great sense of humor, so when other people don’t agree with me, their humor is bad. Why would I want to riff with somebody who has bad humor? Disagree with me all you want, I don’t even want to talk to you to begin with! And I won’t. I have no trouble pretending like people don’t exist. The only part that sucks is that you have to pretend, and you do kind of sense when an awful energy floats into a room, even if you don’t look to confirm that it’s the person you hate. That is why it is better to isolate yourself, and keep your circle small, by the way. I would know this, because I’m the type of person that accidentally collects friends. Now I am realizing most people are dumb and lazy and weird and have NO business saying anything about anything. There’s obviously a spectrum to this, but generally speaking, I don’t value peoples minds. I have empathy for people, and we all feel emotions similarly, but I don’t think everyone has a similar brain. I prefer to be with people who have a similar brain to me, or at least are directionally similar. Like, they want the same things out of life. I fear sounding eugenicsy. That’s not really what I mean. I just don’t want to associate with dumb and unmotivated people. If this offends you, it’s not too late for you to become less dumb and more motivated. There are so many ways to pull yourself out of the mud.

I believe you need to work on yourself and fill up a bit intentionally before judging people. I’ve done that, so I’m exempt from judgement, and I’m allowed to judge. I’ve earned that. I’ve been reading literature. You know? I’ve moved out of my hometown, I’ve lived in a major city, I’ve drank myself sober. I’ve held all kinds of jobs. I’ve been bullied and I’ve been a bitch. I’ve been a hippy dippy high-schooler and I’ve been a preppy private-catholic school girl. I’ve come from privilege and I’ve cosplayed poor. I’ve dated ugly people and I’ve gone on dates with hot people and I’ve clocked the pros and cons of both, through a lens that has nothing to do with looks. I’ve been ugly, I’ve had acne and awkward phases, I’ve gained weight and lost it. I’ve been the heaviest person in the friend group and I’ve gotten thin enough to go on shopping sprees with my almond mom where she’s in an excited type of mood, and wants to buy everything I try on. I only fit in those clothes for a few months, because I’ve gotten better at achieving than I have at maintaining.

All that to say, I’ve validated myself. At least through the lens of exactly how I’ve been raised. I’ve pushed the boundaries a little. But not too much. I like to fit in everywhere. That kind of informs how I dress myself, too.

This logic is mirrored in the way I depend on my mom telling me my outfit is cute before I leave the house, even though she leaves the house in some outfits that I personally do not approve of. Even though she tells me the outfit in question looks bad and I think: you don’t know what you’re talking about, this is the future, and this is personal style, and I could pull Anything off. And then I feel uncomfortable in my outfit all day.

I’ve grown kind of tired of asking for other peoples opinions. I don’t like being disagreed with, it takes the wind out of my sails. I prefer confirmation bias, or placebo effect, or living in my own echo chamber. I think you can will something into existence, mind over matter. And if someone isn’t on my wavelength, and is not a total visionary like me, of course they won’t get it! Plus, if you do something enough, it just becomes your way. You write a new standard and set a new expectation and don’t have to abide by rules the same as everyone else. That’s a good feeling. And I want to keep pushing in that direction. It is hard and rewarding and I think ultimately it has made my life harder, but better. Or more unique. It’s not a journey for everyone, but I appreciate sculpting my own way of doing things. Maybe I think that way because I also want to be able to call myself an artist or a creative, if only so the rules don’t apply to me. Unfortunately I did not go to an art school, and I don’t have many “Creatives” in my network. Nor does my family. I grew up vanilla. And sometimes I lament that setback. But I do think it allows me to walk the line between mainstream and something else. I can be more myself, because there aren’t a bunch of more-unique more creative people out-doing me. Not that I would even know what that environment is like, or if it’s competitive (I’m sure it is, but I can’t really say 100%). I guess I’d rather be judged by a bunch of basic vanilla types for being a bit off beat, than be judged by a bunch of interesting people who have carved out their own identity in a conformist world. That would probably hurt more. But again, I don’t know what that would feel like, because I don’t have that kind of exposure. People do think I'm weird, though. I don’t think I’m that weird. Like I said, it’s a fine line.

When you’re trying to be a part of the collective (read: you’re trying to feel accepted and loved, and you want to be popular and included and amused) there are so many rules you have to follow. Who even came up with these rules? I feel like they’re being flipped on their back a bit, which makes me happy. The rise of the quirked up shawty via social media. Independent designers are cool, and you have to dig around to find them. You have to have a perspective when you style yourself, and you have to be informed, and educate yourself, and pay attention, and know things. I feel like I made references in my jokes a lot growing up, and I don’t think people really understood that. I think I’ve spent a lot of time with people who dont Know things. There are different types of being smart, and I think my lack of common sense is balanced by my perceptive approach to living. The more sober I’ve gotten the more clear my perception is. It came naturally, kind of.

I hate rules. I like to be aware of them, so that I feel smart and refined and Of the Culture and a Woman of Society. But I mostly enjoy the awareness so I can break them in a cerebral way. That is so fun for me. It’s so cheeky.

So I’ve said I want to know how I’m perceived by everyone, and I take it back. I think many people are dumb, and if not always, definitely at least some of the time. I think reading reviews about myself from a bunch of people who I wouldn’t keep in my close circle would royally fuck me up. Too many perspectives would pollute what is pure in me. I wouldn't be able to make clearheaded decisions anymore. Everything I did would be informed by the eyes and ears and brain of people who lived completely different lives from me. I think thats helpful as a sounding board, but not as an always-thing. Nothing I say is bible, either. I am polluted by my own experiences, and I get really shaken up when I’m proven wrong by new people and new experiences.

I want to be a writer, and I want to have a perspective, and when you plant your boots on the ground looking North, someone with boots on the ground looking south will disagree with you on the view. I am working on saying the things I mean and being OK with maybe getting cancelled loudly by 10 people, but having 50 people quietly nod. It’s a weird feeling.

Still, I blab my opinions and views on the internet. The next day I am the one cringing at myself, because me yesterday or me last week was a total freak, and me now is better. And it’ll always feel like that, I think. Unless I grow wise and proud and forgiving. I am nicer to other people than I am to myself.

Someone DM’d me how I started on the internet without worrying what people thought. I think it’s important to share about my early experience on the internet because I assume a lot of people are like me, and want to start, but haven’t yet for whatever excuse they come up with. I’d say just talk to your closest friends. Ask their perspective, if they would be embarrassed by your content. They should be supportive, because that is what friends are meant to do, especially your very closest friends. If they tell you not to follow your dreams, probably don’t be friends them! Just a perspective. Then, when your other most distant friends talk shit, you can remember that you didn’t even ask them their perspective to begin with, because you don’t care. This sort of thing reminds you who is important, and who is worth your time. I also don’t really talk much with my friends about my social media experience, because it is on-line and not-real. I talk about my hopes and dreams for off-line with them. It’s important to recognize the difference, I think, between off and online, before you begin. Then, if you flop, you can remember you’re great in real life, and online doesn’t matter much anyways.

I don’t like when people brag too much. Confidence and self assuredness is important, but there’s a level and a self awareness and an ability to be quiet that balances that. I didn’t comprehend this until about two years ago, when I got sober and therefore got much less annoying. Before that, I liked to tell people about myself as if I were explaining why I deserve my seat at the table. I think it’s giving scarcity mindset, and it’s weird, and awkward, and I don’t think I was being as relatable as I thought I was being. I note this because I have been with a handful of people similar to me, but younger than me, and I’m noticing this habit in them. I sometimes wonder if I’d get a grip had I not stopped partying. I like my personality much better now.

It’s been a few months since I’ve written on MY blog, because I've been flippantly writing on my Substack instead. I’ve been writing gratitude lists, prefaced by a little weekly introspective. I think I’ve been doing a bit of the same here lately, which was bugging me. This blog went OFF the rails from what I was proud to churn out. But the same thing happened with my Youtube, and my Tiktok, and it seems that me leaning into what feels natural may not be as engaging for others. And I guess I have to not care about that, seeing that I want to write a full blown book soon. And I will have to be okay with writing pig slop and expecting people to read it, if I’m going to do that. I think I was a bit derailed when I tried to write about friendship breakups awhile back, and published it, and then deleted it. I was able to make a YouTube video that touched on the progression of that friendship breakup, and I think some things are better communicated with spoken-word than writing. That, and my Dad always told me to “never” put anything in writing. Thats a very mafia thing to say, and my dad is not in the mafia. He is in Tech. And I am in the business of writing, if business means making no money and doing it for the love of the game (with the eventual goal to make money). Unfortunatley, I put a lot in writing, nothing in editing, and I was ashamed of my last few blogs. Not ashamed enough to delete them, because they are a bit of a testament to exploiting yourself, embarrassing yourself, flopping, and (hopefully) resurrecting. I think a comeback story can be really compelling. Whatever, it doesn’t even matter. The point is: I want to be rich. I want to be rich even more than younger-me wanted to be hot. Being hot is super attainable now, and being rich? I don’t think it is. I think everybody is in credit card debt, actually.

The manifestation-heads preach about living life as if your dreams are guaranteed to come true. That sounds like a fast train to credit card debt, honestly. Alternatively, I have been living a very frugal life. This is a very catholic approach to the same thing….I am practically a martyr, and God will notice this, and grant me 3 wishes, like a genie. I know what I want my wishes to be, and everyone else could probably guess, too. But I’ll tell you: I want to be endlessly rich, I want to be the most comfortable (of anyone), and I want what’s best for me. I leave the last one open ended, and I would down turn my chin and look up at God from under my eyebrow when I say the last one, letting him know that he should probably just grant all my fox-hole prayers that I’ve shouted at him from my brain for the past 10 years. They have mostly been the same, thematically, and God should take pity on me, because I took the Humble Martyr route, and I suffered alot.

Anyways.

Another reason I haven’t written on my Blog lately is because I’ve been strategically consuming (books, popular TV shows, other peoples’ substacks, whatever slop my algorithm throws at me, and many other important things, some of which include googling myself and scrolling my own profiles through someone else’s eyes, and again but as someone else this time). I finally figured out I’d rather work 5 days a week than continue working my 4 ten hour shifts in a row. This schedule isn’t conducive to me engaging with all of my important input in addition to my important output: painting, posting my every waking thought on my Instagram story, drawing, and writing on my blog AND in my journal. It’s impossible. Especially if you factor in that I try to call everyone I like at least once a week, sometimes more. I’ve accidentally made some friends on my self-reflective solo move to Colorado, so I’ve been battling off plans with them, as well.

The friends thing made me remember what a flake I was being in New York, and it reminded me that I need to keep Edging friendship and engaging in Sigma activities in order to really miss socializing and fully jump back into the pool when I am back in New York. Did I mention I plan to move back to New York? Brooklyn, specifically. It makes me shudder to think of moving out of the in-unit washer dryer townhouse I live in now, back to a tiny shoe box in The City. Worse yet, I will spend money in The City, which is something I don’t really do here. It’s hard for me to get anywhere to spend money, but I also clock the fact that I get everything I need for free at work. Another incentive for working 5 days a week, by the way. I will only need to feed myself for 2 days a week. Thats easy to do if I pocket some hand-fruit, a few eggs in a plastic tupperware, and whatever leftovers are being offered to the staff after lunch. I’ll also snag a few packaged snacks, and maybe some “stale” sourdough bread. I swapped out my mom’s Hermes hobo bag for a tote bag, so I can stuff everything in there as we close up for the day. I walk out with a to-go cup full of 6 espresso shots, a handful of Splenda, and I have some unsweetened almond milk at home. Stretching that haul over a 3 day weekend has been proving to be a bit of a challenge. If I only worked 2 days a week it would be perfect! It’s fine that it took me awhile to get smart on this, because I can milk out my new schedule until October, when I plan to leave.

I don’t think it’s necessary for me to live like this either. I wouldn’t even call this behavior frugal. I don’t know what I’d call it, I’m not proud of it, but this is what’s going on.