In the Land of No Jobs

Right now, I'm kicking myself for not being born a right-handed, left-brained, mathematical genius.

There are JOBS for people that can do calculus and physics - a rolling field filled with them, each one waiting to be picked like a flower. You could be a Doctor, an Architect, an Engineer -- the possibilities are endless and since most people just don't "do" math the mere fact that you can makes you a star.

The math genius doesn't have to compete with every m-fing, hipster on the planet for one coveted writing spot that pays $20,000 a year. Curse this creative brain! It doesn't do me any good.

• Brain tells me to be like Hemingway, but I don't drink rum, so I find myself sitting among 8 diet cokes and 4 Mike's Hard Lemonades. I can't even do writer's binge drinking properly.
  
  
• Brain tells me to watch four rerun episodes of Roseanne, instead of starting the pile of freelance work that is due in the morning - I'll be up til 4:00 a.m. typing away trying not to misspell the word "embroidered"
  
  
• Brain tells me I'm not inspired, so I end up strolling along the beach, go home - guess what? Still uninspired...
  
  
• Brain tells me I need to be distracted to get motivated -- so I end up checking my e-mail seven times in twenty minutes just to "refresh"
  
  
• Brain tells me an MFA is the answer, but then tells me to write this blog instead of taking the Math prep class for the GRE
  
  
• Brain tells me an MFA would be too hard, too expensive, too pretentious ... Brain then gives me an image of me sitting unhappily in a roundtable discussion debating whether Shakespeare was a homosexual (or really Edward De vere) AGAIN.
  
  
• Brain tells me I have to A. Be tragic B. Live in the City and C. Be on anti-depressants if I ever want to be taken seriously -- oh and that at some point I should do some soul searching --whatever that means.
  
  
• Brain says I should journey deep in the woods and do nothing but write for days on end -after all, that is what "real writers" do. Oh and the trip would have to cost no less than $500 and goat cheese must be involved somehow.

I'm tired, hungry, and my dog snores. Am I today's version of a starving artist? I shudder to think of it. When I was a kid, I longed to be a Veterinarian. I even convinced my grandma to teach me how to sew, so that I can stitch the animals back up after they were done with surgery.

Despite having to put someone's poor 15-year-old family dog to sleep, being a vet would be a sweet gig. Damn you creative mind. Now shut up, I have a novel to write.