On his album Final Engagement, Marc Maron has a joke about “day three.” And you’ll have to go find it yourself because I could not produce that piece of audio/video to save my miserable life right now. The man seems like such a mess all the time, but he’s got his copyright shit on point. Anyway, the gist of the joke is basically how every hair-brained scheme eventually has a day three, which is where the inevitable press of reality finally catches up with declining adrenaline and you realize you’re stick on Mount Rainier, dressed in a bearskin rug, holding a pairing knife and half a week before you had nothing but the very best intentions for yourself.
I feel a little bit like that, except that the bearskin is really warm and it turns out I’m pretty handy with a tiny little knife. Like, I’m totally freaking out over here, but kind of still think I’m going to land on my feet, although I wasn’t feeling that for all of today. I called a couple of my friends, and my old roommate reminded me of the time I decided to live in my car because I didn’t want to quit school and I wasn’t in a position to pay for college and rent at the same time. I had done test runs, moved all my stuff into the car, made a really amazingly comfortable bed, checked the local laws, and had safe overnight parking before I even spent one night in it. Turns out Ben took pity on me and let me fuck him and sleep in his bed until we officially moved in together, so I only actually slept in my car on three separate occasions. I tend to think of myself as an up by the boot-straps lady, and that’s partially true. But I’m also very well cared for when the shit really hits the fan because honestly, it rarely does. I am a super-prepared person and I will work my ass off by default.
So, basically, I’m too tired to write any sort of real post because I am freaking out about the possibility and the reality of being able to be my own boss. It’s nice to know where the buck stops, I just didn’t realize how stressful it would be for it to stop here.