This might seem like an odd topic to write about on a blog that’s ostensibly professional, but it’s about an important part of who I am and what drives me.

I feel very nervous writing about it, in fact. Which is probably a sign that I should write about it.

A classmate of mine recently asked me when I came out, and my response, “oh, a year or two ago,” prompted a surprised response.

I actually came out to my friends as genderqueer before I came out as bi. In school, I am more willing to discuss my sexuality than my questions/understanding of gender. This realization led me to the understanding of how complex these contexts are, and as I develop friendships within my cohort these contexts grow closer together and overlap in uncomfortable ways.

This post is going to talk about sexuality more than gender. I think my feelings about gender and my identity are complex enough topics to deserve their own space.

Wait, You Came Out in Your Forties?

When you’re a bi woman, I think, and especially if your attraction to men and women (catering to the binary for the sake of simplicity) is roughly equal, it’s easy to believe that you’re straight. And this is what happened to me. As an artsy kid, I rationalized that female beauty that struck me dumb was an artistic appreciation. That the women that I wanted to fawn over in my life were simply people I deeply admired.

It wasn’t until age 40-41 that I started to recognize deeply gay feelings I was having for what they were.

I attribute this to my existing in a circle of friends in which queerness and same-sex attraction is very normalized. It suddenly seemed not so strange that I would see a woman in a midriff baring shirt and kinda want to squeeze her belly. That I would want to kiss a woman’s shoulders. It was no longer something I could pass off as artistic, as platonic admiration.

I went home and said to my roommate: “I’ve been having some very gay thoughts today.”

She leaned forward and said, “tell me more.”

And I did.

I really benefited from having someone to talk to about it in a non-judgmental way, someone with whom I could verbalize what I’d been feeling and sort of get things untangled.

A few days, maybe a week later, I came out as bi on Facebook.

Why Bi?

I identify as bisexual probably because I’m older, and it feels more comfortable to me. The bi identity is often accused of being binary and transphobic, but it means that I am attracted to genders the same as mine (homosexual) and those different than mine (heterosexual).

People say that “pansexual” is an identity better fitting this definition, but I don’t know, it just sounds so modern and wishy-washy to me, so I don’t use it.

Since coming out, I have felt a great deal more attraction to women than to men, and I’m not sure if it’s a case of waking up in a beautiful garden and wanting to smell all the flowers, or if it’s a genuine reflection of my orientation. Either way, I don’t know that it matters. I don’t think I’m a lesbian. I’m absolutely for sure not straight.

I think I might be done dating men. This is not a reflection of my orientation; I still find some men attractive. I’m just so tired of dating men and all the bullshit that comes with it, and statistically cis straight men are just not good in bed. This squares with my experience with sex with cis straight men. So why put in the effort if the sex is bad and the relationship fraught with societal issues around gender?

I also don’t know about dating women? This new (it’s not new, but more on that later) attraction is kind of scary. The thought of learning how to have sex all over again at age 41 is intimidating and women are beautiful and scary. But if I were to date, if I were to even eventually marry, I would prefer it be with a woman or non-binary person rather than a cis man.

See how complicated this gets?

How Could You Not Know?

Well, there were signs, right? I should have known.

Those girls and women that I felt compelled to make meticulously handcrafted gifts for, those were people I had crushes on. The teachers and professors that I worked so desperately to please, I found them beautiful. My often lackluster attraction to my male lovers, that was a sign, too.

The fact that I would make out with women whenever I was drunk and had a willing accomplice, that was a sign too.

But the fact is, since I was sexually attracted to men, and since I grew up in a time when “gay” was the worst thing you could be, it was a matter of internalized homophobia causing me to ignore those feelings, to rationalize them away, to be what I should be: a straight woman who has sex with men.

I had an advantage in this sense. I avoided harm that came to my contemporaries as a consequence of their sexual orientation. I lived as a straight person for most of my life, and I consider this a form of privilege, because I lived out of reach of the violence and hatred that was visited upon gay people during my youth.

But I also feel as though I gave up the opportunity to acknowledge and explore this part of me, and as a result, may have missed out on important, life changing relationships. I missed out on part of who I am. And I feel that loss now that I’m out. I feel it almost every day.

Why is This Important?

I mean, it’s personally important, right? Let’s not just take that for granted. But lots of things that are personally important to me don’t make it on to this blog.

As a marketer, I consider myself a cultural worker. As a writer, I am most definitely a cultural worker. And my identities and how they intersect absolutely impact my work in cultural spaces. That includes both writing and marketing. That doesn’t mean I can only market in queer spaces, but it does mean that I have an ability that straight people may not have to understand some of the ways messaging impacts queer communities (the LGBTQ space is very diverse and I by no means speak for or to all of the many communities covered under this umbrella).

It also means that I’m more likely to write in ways that include non-straight, non-cis people. This has cropped up in my fiction especially, where even before my late revelation, I had taken to writing queer and gender non-conforming characters. And that’s something that’s going to continue.

This is valuable, because as our culture is (slowly) becoming more accepting to diverse orientations and identities, we’re going to see more people like me; more people who were safe living as cis straight people and could reasonably pull it off coming out, and fewer teens and young adults who feel the need to hide their identities even from themselves to be safe.

The world is not getting straighter and more binary, in short. The internet age reduces information asymmetry and speeds social change. And writers and marketers will need effective ways to address those changes.

Aside from being personally significant, my orientation and my identity are a way to address marketing in a queering world.

I don’t know if any of this made sense, or if any of it is accidentally offensive. If you have comments, feel free to post them.

The idea of the “self made man” is a common one in American culture. It’s the idea of someone (a man, typically) becoming successful simply through their own grit and hard work and natural ability. Though the phrase seems to be less common now than it was in my youth, you’ll still hear it, mostly from older folks or from those on the political right. The idea persists in the culture, however, and that’s a problem.

Because the self made man is a myth, and it always has been.

Where Does this Idea Come From?

This idea has been around since the early days of the United States. The phrase was coined in a speech by US Senator Henry Clay in 1832, but there are those who regard Benjamin Franklin as the first self made man. At that time, the concept of the self made man was a man who divested himself of possessions so that he may then go on to build his own fortune; in the 1950s, the success of the self made man was considered to be strictly success in business.

As the term has been used over and over again, it lost the divestiture meaning, and came to encapsulate anyone who had come up in business, the assumption being that the success this person (again, a man) enjoyed was the fruit of their own hard work, grit, and natural talents. These days there are those who would apply the self made man label even to those such as Donald J Trump, who has little experience at all with divestiture of wealth.

When the phrase was used by Clay in his speech in the Senate, it was in reference to leaders of manufacturing industry regarding tariffs that were being debated at the time, and this is a subject matter that causes people to invoke the self made man quite often: taxes. The idea that it is immoral to take money from those who have worked hard to earn it on their own, with no outside help, is used to inveigh against wealth taxes, business taxes, high marginal rates, and even estate taxes (the irony is palpable) here in the United States.

Frederick Douglass, a former slave turned abolitionist, said in one of his lectures that there were…

no such men as self-made men. That term implies an individual independence of the past and present which can never exist … Our best and most valued acquisitions have been obtained either from our contemporaries or from those who have preceded us in the field of thought and discovery. We have all either begged, borrowed or stolen. We have reaped where others have sown, and that which others have strown, we have gathered.

Frederick Douglass

Success Comes From Community and Society.

The flaws with this view of success, particularly success in business, should be obvious immediately: nobody runs a wildly successful business on their own.

Even if you started the business on your own, with no business loans, no small business grants, no material inheritance at all from one’s family (even I got enough of my parents’ estate to buy a Playstation), business simply does not work that way. Especially in the context of post industrialization manufacturing business, while you may have worked to get the money to buy the plant and the equipment, your business requires the labor of employees.

This is vital. We often think about how much employees need their jobs (and we do) but we neglect how vital employees are to the businesses they work for. Tesla could not function without employees, and nor could Kellogg’s or GE. If they could, they would.

We’re nearing a point now in which business without labor may become a possibility, but even then we will have relied on the work and advancement of generations of scientists and engineers to make that possible. Scientific advancement in the fields of automation and artificial intelligence doesn’t just fall from trees.

In addition, all business require the support of society to succeed. This ranges from simple access to markets (markets are made of people, something we often also overlook; no business succeeds without customers) to basic infrastructure, from roads and utilities that are provided or regulated by society collectively, to high speed data connections, cloud storage, and other necessities of modern business.

Land and Labor.

So if we assume that, of the four factors of production, Capital and Entrepreneurship are both taken care of by our self made man alone (they weren’t, but let’s assume), Land and Labor are still unaccounted for. Land includes natural resources that become raw materials that finished goods are manufactured from.

Where do land and labor come from?

Here, in the US, they’re stolen.

Every business, every factory, every office in the United States stands on stolen land. Every natural resource we extract is extracted from stolen land. Resources once regarded as common pool resources, some non-excludable, are made excludable and captured for the pursuit of profit.

But even if that weren’t the case, even if we didn’t steal this entire country and engage in a (continuing) campaign of genocide against its original inhabitants, one could reasonably say that it’s impossible to extract an industrially significant quantity of a resource from a given parcel of land without it impacting neighboring parcels. One could say that the industrial processes necessary for industrial scale production cannot help but pollute land, air, and water that impact those on neighboring parcels. The land, at the risk of sounding a bit new-agey, is all connected; by plants, animals, water, and air. You cannot plunder land, even land you own, without impacting those around you, the society in which you operate.

But what about Labor?

Okay, it may be fair to have a conversation about whether or not labor is stolen in the current day (although it certainly isn’t traded on an open and fair market), but this nation from its very beginnings was built on stolen labor. And the early mercantile and agricultural success enjoyed by the fledgling US may never have been possible without it.

It’s worth noting that Henry Clay himself, who stood in defense of the self made men of manufacturing, was a slave owner. As was Benjamin Franklin.

So when you take advantage of US markets, of an economic system predicated on cheap (or stolen) labor, you’re benefiting from the legacy of slavery, even if you don’t currently own slaves yourself.

I’m not making a moral judgement on this. I’m just acknowledging this as fact. There’s no way that a business benefiting from our system does not in some way benefit from our past use of slavery.

Capital and Entrepreneurship.

The two remaining factors of production are capital and entrepreneurship. Capital refers to the machinery, tools, buildings, and other equipment needed to produce goods. Entrepreneurship is the spark that most people associate with the self made man; the grit, the willingness to work hard, and the intelligence that makes the self made man successful.

Capital does not spring fully formed from the hands of the entrepreneur. Though the self made man, without any material inheritance from his family, may have worked sufficiently to acquire the capital needed, there were employees that manufactured or built the capital. Inventors who created the machines. A society that has gone before that left fertile ground for the creation of this capital in its wake.

Surely entrepreneurship is the domain of the self made man, and his alone. Surely he is responsible for his intelligence and work.

Not so fast. Even with a lack of material inheritance from his family, the self made man benefits from the education he received throughout his life. He benefits from the cultural education that he received from his social standing (early examples of self made men were born to landed gentry almost exclusively, and were white, ensuring that they understood how to move in the world of moneyed whites. This persists today. I am a beneficiary of such cultural privilege). They benefit from not having to scrape a living from the unforgiving land with their crooked fingers, the benefit of which is the ability to think of things grander than one’s next meal.

These days, even those who have been educated only in private schools benefit from curriculum developed by the broader society (often in public schooling systems) and we all benefit from public schools as they produce workers of a sufficient education level to perform the work needed in our companies and factories. Public education also mitigates a wide range of societal ills, making a society that is more stable and more able to direct energy toward consumerism. A society that produces both workers and customers.

The Blindness of the Self Made Man.

I am floored whenever I hear someone talk about self made men in this day and age. The sheer blindness of it, to not be able to look behind you and see the hundreds (or thousands, or millions) of people who participated along the way. Schoolteachers and road builders, laborers and mentors.

It is a blindness that doesn’t see the connection that every business has to the land, to the communities that live on that land, to those that historically lived on that land. To the communities in which they do business, to the workers in those communities and to the customers that are the eventual end users where the chain of production terminates.

All of us are connected. All of us come from a place and a people, and we all carry the benefits and disadvantages that those origins provide.

This profound blindness impacts all of us, wherever we live, wherever we work.

Why it Matters.

Understanding where your business comes from and where it’s going confers a long term advantage. Understanding the community where your business comes from and in which it operates currently is incredibly valuable. But it matters on a much smaller scale than that.

Understanding the webs of, for lack of a better term, value, that connect us all gives one a unique view of the market, of strategy, and of marketing. It lets you see strengths and weaknesses that the blind self made man simply cannot see.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout my life is that, without significant material inheritance, what little success I’ve achieved has depended heavily on a complex web of relationships, without which I would be nothing at all.

Understanding that allows for further success, and gives you opportunities to help others succeed.

This is a personal essay that I wrote for a non-fiction writing class. I thought some of you might find it interesting.

Tiger’s Nest.

Tiger’s Nest Monastery sits about six miles north of Paro town, perched on the side of a mountain. Reaching the monastery is a two mile hike, with seventeen hundred feet in elevation gain. The path is a combination of hard, rocky earth and more than seven hundred stone stairs. Tiger’s nest is a holy place. It is built around a cave where the Guru Rinpoche sat and meditated for three years, three months, three weeks, three days, and three hours. The first temple was erected there in the Guru’s honor by a distant cousin of the mad saint Drukpa Kunley in the seventeenth century. The original complex was destroyed by fire in 1998 and rebuilt and restored in 2005, but you can still feel the weight of veneration in the stones and timbers.

It was part way up those seven hundred steps that I realized I wasn’t going to reach the monastery on my own. I fell behind our group, and one of our guides came to walk beside me. I fell further behind, and he took my hand, helping me up the steps. Once we reached the top, we removed our shoes and climbed the Bhutanese stairs – which were more like a slanted ladder – into the monastery proper. We walked silently on stocking-feet across the old wood floors, looking at the murals in the monastery complex. We were ushered into a line of people, and at the head of that line was a small man in monk’s robes seated in an ornately carved wooden chair.

He poured water into my cupped hands with a dipper, and I smoothed the water over my head, as I had seen those before me do. I looked up at him, searching for confirmation that this was the right thing to do. He smiled and gave me a small nod.

I was still shining and damp-headed from the monk’s blessing when we left the monastery. I was worse on the way back. The guide who helped me down the stairs assured me that I was a “good work horse” as he held me up. I babbled to him about how ashamed I was of my weakness, and he smiled.

To the right of the path were dozens of small clay objects; mini-stupas. Objects of mourning, made of clay and the ground bones of the dead. Each one was a corpse, anonymous but not alone, left to weather away in the wind and rain. I didn’t know it then, but I was already sick.

On the path to Tiger’s Nest.

Mount Cholmolhari.

Mount Cholmohari sits on the border with Tibet, rising to 24,000 feet above sea level, the second highest peak in Bhutan. The Bhutanese do not allow people to climb their mountains. The mountains are sacred. Cholmohari has been climbed just seven times, claiming three lives in a 1970 attempt. It is home to goddesses and a sign post on the road to Mount Everest. We camped south of it, so over the next two days I would get to see it lit by alpenglow at both sunset and sunrise.

This was our third day on trek, and I was unable to complete even the first day’s hike.

They had put me on a little mountain pony, straddling a wooden pack saddle laid with blankets to make it more comfortable. They tied rope stirrups for my feet, and I had to squeeze hard with my legs whenever the pony went up or downhill to keep my seat.

I slid off the back of the pony when we reached Cholmohari base camp, and our guides helped me to a folding chair. I sat, at the edge of a tiny creek. Yaks wandered the pasture on the other side. I thought of nothing. I was exhausted. The trek guides worked on setting up the camp behind me.

When the rest of the trekking party appeared around a bend in the trail, they looked like a line of ants. I watched them walk in.

I was laying in my tent. The presence of the mountain throbbed in my mind, radiating so powerfully from the north that I imagined I could feel the gravity of its bulk pulling me toward it. Outside, the soft voices of our trek mates having conversations I could not follow. I imagined that they were talking about me. It was around thirty degrees out and lightly snowing. The cool air felt good, and I squirmed out of my coat. I dozed, and was transported to the dark and smoky dzong near Paro where we had listened in stunned silence as the monks drummed and sang. The music, like the mountain, had a gravity that I couldn’t deny. At the time I’d longed to be able to record it, but that wasn’t necessary. Even now, when I can’t remember the sound of it, I know that music has burrowed its way into me, changing me.

My sister scraped at the tent entrance. I roused from my half-sleep, sweating.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I said, pushing myself into a sitting position.

She unzipped the tent flap and stepped in, not bothering to remove her shoes. She knelt on my sleeping pad, zipping the tent up behind her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Sore.”

She eyed me. “You should sleep in your sleeping bag.”

“It’s too warm,” I said.

There was a moment of silence.

“So I think you have pneumonia,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. She’s a doctor; I tend to give her the benefit of the doubt in these situations.

“And I don’t think you’re going to get better until you’re inside somewhere warm.”

“Okay. So what does that look like?”

“Well, I borrowed a satellite phone, and the closest place that can send a helicopter is India, and it would cost fifty thousand dollars.”

“Jesus.”

“We can do it if we have to. The travel insurance would cover it. But I think if you can, we should hike out.”

“Okay,” I said. My heart sank. I could get up and wander around base camp, I could get to the mess tent for meals, but I wasn’t up to even the short day hikes around the area that the rest of the trekking group had been taking.

She dug around in the pockets of her down jacket and pulled out two orange pill bottles.

“This is an antibiotic, and this is prednisolone.”

“Those are the dog’s antibiotics,” I said, eyeing the black canine silhouette on the label.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t need them anymore,” she said.

She opened the first bottle and handed me a big, oval shaped pill. She opened the second bottle and handed me four round flat pills.

“We’ll ramp up the prednisolone over the next few days until we’re back in town,” she said. “It’ll help give you the strength for the hike.”

“I’ve been on prednisolone before,” I said. I took the pills, one after the other, with water from my water bottle.

“When do we leave?” I asked.

“We’ll head out when the rest of the group leaves to go over the pass.”

“So the morning after tomorrow?”

She nodded.

The first day of our evacuation hike from Cholmohari Base Camp was a blur. I woke up in my tent in a yak pasture the next morning. I dressed quickly in the chill air and packed up all my personal belongings. The hike was originally supposed to be three days to cover nearly twenty miles, but it had been shortened to two. We had been sent with insufficient provisions. Today was going to be our long hike, the one that would take us back to the nearest road.

I unzipped the door to the tent and the farm dog curled up at the entrance lifted its head. I pet it. It got up, stretched, and trotted away. I tossed my duffel bag out onto the frozen ground.

The guides brought us tea in plastic mugs. My sister handed me eight of the small round pills. The steroids. “I don’t want to go any further,” I told her.

“We have to,” she said. “Take your prednisolone and lace up your boots.”

“When we get back to town I can stop taking this, right?”

My fever had broken. I hated the prednisolone. I hated it every time I had to take it. It made me irritable.

“We’ll see,” she said.

I laced up my boots.

As we hiked, I was distracted by skull-shapes in the shadows and the stones on the trail. Not the terrifying death’s heads of the west, but quiet watchers, their empty eyes holding vigil from the edge of the path.

The sound of an old woman singing followed me down the trail.

When my right knee gave out underneath me, I sank slowly to the ground. I clenched the trekking poles in my hands, kneeling in the dust. Nobody pestered me to get up and keep going. They just stood behind me silently, waiting. I took a few deep breaths and pushed myself back to my feet. I reminded myself to lead with my left foot from then on.

We stopped on a sunny hillside for a lunch of mango jam and butter sandwiches and a single hot boiled potato. That potato tasted like heaven. My sister is allergic to mangoes.

I remember looking down from the trail into the blue-green water of the Paro river, and thinking I could just fall into the water and die. It wasn’t deep enough to drown in, but maybe I would hit my head, or the hypothermia would get me before anyone could reach me.

We reached the pickup point, a flat expanse of gravel surrounding a stupa. A place where the roads end. My sister grinned, I took a photo of her by the stupa. Our guides sat me in a folding chair and brought out cookies and hot chocolate while we waited. The cookies tasted like sand to me.

The stupa at the end of the evacuation hike.

We were picked up about an hour after our arrival. I dragged myself into the van. I half slept on the way back, snippets of conversation in English and in Dzongkha drifted in and out of my awareness. Nothing made sense.

It was dark when we arrived at Paro town. Our rooms were on the third floor, and I struggled up the stairs on ruined knees and ruined lungs. We would leave for Thimphu tomorrow. I would see a doctor there.

The City of Thimpu.

The city of Thimphu is the capital of Bhutan, and it, like the rest of this region of the country, is made of stone. It rests in a river valley at over seven thousand feet elevation, the fourth highest national capital in the world. Wild cannabis grows on the hillsides, and in the mountains sits the Great Buddha Dordenma, more than a hundred and fifty feet tall and gleaming with gold. Below the golden Buddha, migrant workers from India break rocks by hand and build roads, living in tin shacks along the highway.

The Great Buddha Dordenma.

I’m standing on my hotel balcony, smoking a cigarette. Below me, the city with its stone buildings and their stone roofs, abutting stone streets. I don’t know if our hotel is the tallest building in the city, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were. Jackdaws flit from roof to roof. Stray dogs bark and whine.

The buildings are a mish-mash of graceful traditional architecture and cement blocks that remind me of buildings in former soviet states, squat and anonymous. Bhutan is a country modernizing in a hurry and on a shoestring budget. Thimphu once had a single stoplight, but the locals didn’t like it and it was quickly removed.

I am a few days back from our catastrophic trek.

This is my last day off before I return to the exhausting schedule of tourism planned by our guides. I spent last night carefully draining the blisters on my feet with a needle and some alcohol pads. I was off the steroids, but had more pills to take from the hospital in Bhutan, where the doctor noted that in addition to respiratory illness, I had hepatitis. The pills were to support liver function.

Smoking in public is illegal in Bhutan, and breaking this law earns you scowls from the locals. As such, smoking makes me nervous, as the balcony feels like a strange space in between public and private. The smoke burns my healing lungs, but I am painfully aware that during the day I will not be able to smoke at all, so I make the most of it. I sit sagging on the side of one of the lounge chairs, still weak, my knees stiff and sore.

As the sun sets, the dogs set up their chorus below – they are most active at dusk and dawn, like so many wild things – and the smell of the city changes from stone to wood smoke. I long for the quiet of Paro, for its dusty streets and smiling children. I long for home, with its sea-level atmosphere and soft rains. I long for my younger self, who would have been up to the trek.

This is one of those posts a lot of people seem to make on their blogs, and I don’t really expect anyone to read it or care, but it seems like the sort of thing I should have in my archived posts, I guess. For those of you who are interested, I thought I’d detail how my day goes when I’m not in classes.

There may be a Day in the Life post for when I’m in classes later. I’m not sure. We’ll see how I feel about this format.

My life, I think, is not particularly interesting, but I go through it every day, so what do I know?

6:30 – Wake Up.

This sometimes happens at 7:00 instead. I’ve gotten lazy about wake-up time during the break.

I get up. I have a cigarette and check the weather by standing out on the back deck while I smoke. I feed the cat, and deliver his insulin injection. I take the dog out to go potty. I get dressed in whatever seems comfortable, pack up my laptop, charger, water bottle, and a light breakfast. I load up my keychain pill canister with my morning pills. Then I grab my backpack and go catch the bus downtown.

8:30 – Office Time Begins.

I reach downtown and head to a local coffee shop that offers refills and free wifi. I sit down, pull out my bullet journal, review appointments and errands for the day and use them to build my to-do list. All analog at this point, haven’t even opened my laptop. Sometimes I do this while I’m waiting for a table with an outlet to open up. I eat my light breakfast and swallow my pills with my first cup of coffee.

I read at least two articles about management or marketing or SEO, usually from LinkedIn or my marketing list on Twitter. I note down the website, the author, and the title of the article, along with any interesting takeaways or concepts that require further research. Hopefully I find something worth posting to LinkedIn. On Wednesdays I share a post from this very blog.

I think of something writerly and engaging to post to my Author page on Facebook. I tweet something. I check these items off of my to-do list.

9:30 – Second Cup of Coffee.

Self-doubt begins to creep in. I open my journal and turn to my list of potential blog post topics and pick one or two. I write a blog post or two, and check my scheduled posts to make sure I don’t have a gap coming up.

I look for free stock photos for the new blog posts and upload them to Canva. I forgive myself for not being a designer. I upload the photo(s).

I schedule the blog posts. I sit back in my chair and check social media feeds. This is a compulsion; there is no reason to do it other than that I need a break from the constant focus of writing.

Check to see if there’s anything interesting nearby on Pokemon Go.

I check my email. I consider declaring email bankruptcy and starting over. I realize that there are all kinds of images and marked up book covers in that morass accessible only by the gmail search function. Immediately give up.

11:00 – Third Cup of Coffee.

Starting to feel nauseated from the coffee but got a good amount of caffeine in my system now.

Check to see if that blog post you wrote for a client is live now, and agonize about how to pop it into your online writing portfolio.

Go through old school projects to see if there’s anything left from that era that’s worthwhile. Format some old personal essays for the blog.

Chat with other coffee shop regulars.

Consult your to-do list. Check things off. Add new things. Check for phone calls to be made and appointments to be rescheduled. Make phone calls.

Use the coffee shop restroom without examining the toilet seat. Acknowledge that there is now a stranger’s urine drying slowly on the back of my thigh. Consider what a disgustingly human and poetic image of connection this is. Write it in my bullet journal for a future project.

12:00 – 1:00 – Work is Done. Errands Time.

I run any errands on my to-do list. This takes a minimum of three hours to do by bus because buses bend time. In a bad way.

I’m in the bad part of my caffeine buzz now, starting to feel agitated and a little shaky.

I, of course, skip this part if there are no errands and skip ahead to…

3:00 – 4:00 – Errands Are Complete, Head Home.

Ah, it’s nap time.

4:00 – 5:00 – Housework Time.

I set aside time for housework every day. I don’t always get it done, but setting aside the time makes it more likely that I will.

The housework usually involves the kitchen, dishes, etc. I have technically vacuumed before. Sometimes I do laundry or scrub the toilet.

I feel virtuous and absolved for about fifteen minutes.

5:00 – 6:00 – Dinner.

Usually leftovers. Eaten at my desk, usually while watching YouTube.

5:30 – 6:30 – Self Care Time.

Get personal care stuff under control, like detangling my hair and clipping my nails and taking my evening pills. I tell myself I’ll meditate but usually don’t. Feed the cat, give him his second dose of insulin. Sometimes, I even shower.

7:00 – Video Games.

Sometimes I don’t feel like video games, and in those cases I peruse YouTube for delicious video content. Usually though, I do feel like video games. Hop on Discord voice chat.

9:30 – Nighttime Chores.

I scoop the litter box, brush my teeth, take the dog out to potty, add water to the humidifier and empty water from the dehumidifier (as needed). I give myself one more chance to decide to meditate. I usually tell myself I will do it tomorrow night.

The cat gets another feeding because if I don’t feed him right before bedtime he will wake me up at 4:30 in the morning.

I close out the day in my bullet journal. I am not as good about this as I would like you to think I am, so let’s just say I do it every night. I migrate undone to dos to future dates. I add some to-dids to make myself feel better about my day. I move any blog post ideas, fiction ideas, notes for future therapy sessions, and other errata to their respective pages in the journal. I consult my monthly calendar for any appointments for the next day, and look up bus schedules as needed.

10:00 – Bedtime.

Get in bed. Put on a sleepcast. Kick the wrinkles out of my top sheet. After an hour to ninety minutes, fall asleep.

That’s it.

Now you know what it takes to be an unemployed MBA student on summer break. Do you have what it takes?