The Death of a Dream

or Faith Falling Short
or A parting of ways

I always struggle with the title. I have a whole unpublished post about struggling with titling of these damn things. Unpublished, there's a good title.

Once upon a time I was an office drone. I saw the Holstee Manifesto in a bookstore and bought it. I hung it on my office wall. Slowly it's evil hopeful message wormed its way into my dreams. A part of me was screaming, saying "if you keep doing this it's all you'll ever do! It's adding up to be the sum of your life!"

So, one day I said "fuck it." If you want to start living your dream life, you have to start living your dream life. So, I quit my job. I was nice enough to stick around and train my replacement, I would like to note. On my last day I got a fortune cookie from Panda Express.

And that, my friends, is how these leaps of faith get you. Little shit like that. The too-coincidental coincidences.

Next thing you know you're committing financial suicide (more like euthanasia), trying to live your dream.

Lesson #1:
You have a financial self.
It is a vampire.
It can die.

Medusa is capitalism, and we're all the little snakes that make up her hair. I have a great artist I want to do a visualization of that, but he rates about $500 and up for custom jobs, and I'm one of those reluctant vampires. I don't want to feed on other humans, so I end up eating rats. I won't be swinging $500 to spend on art any time soon.

In a capitalist society, you've got to find a consenting victim and bleed them a little - and I'm really bad at that. So, back under the fang I go. The time and effort I should be spending living my dream instead feeding some corporate entity, grown fat from feeding on people just like me.