disclaimer: this essay was written stream of consciousness â it doesnât reflect âthe whole truthâ, but merely my view now. Itâs negative because I felt bad writing it â I could have just as truthfully described how happy I am with my responsible decisions and a supportive, understanding team, and it would be easy to write that now, in the comfort of my home, with fresh food in my belly. Alas, when writing this essay I wasnât happy, and I want to be able to publish that. Enjoy.
Iâm writing for 100 days and I want to enjoy it.
What does it mean to enjoy writing?
No, thatâs not even what I want to say.
I hurt.
Pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain. Too much is going on.
I wish I were listening to music.
But Iâm at work, and I shouldnât be listening to music at work.
I donât want to be at work anymore.
My last day is Friday.
Itâs weird to be somewhere I donât want to be â but I told someone that Iâd be here, and now Iâm trapped. My mind is trapped in a body shared by some past andrew who signed us up for a job that we donât want anymore â it was a mistake to sign up.
Itâs painful to be trapped like that. I make a lot of commitments in my life, but itâs rare for them to pain me. As my options increase, as I become more powerful, more creative, more interested in my own experience and my own projects, the pain and pleasure of commitment increases, I guess.
Currently itâs pain. pain pain pain pain pain. Itâs painful to be waiting until what seems like an arbitrary future date because I âwanted to make sure the transition went wellâ â a social custom that has value in many cases. In this case, it didnât, because I stayed too long. After I handed off all my documents, and explained all the systems, I still had another two weeks. That was a strange and painful decision to make. Can I leave early? I didnât ask.
I could have given 2 daysâ notice. I could have given 2 weeksâ notice. I gave 6 weeksâ notice because I felt like that was a responsible thing to do.
Responsible to whom?
From this perspective, it wasnât responsible to me. It wasnât responsible to my wife. It wasnât responsible to my community or my friends or my future projects or all the customers and users I might help.
And as I sit here writing this essay I realize â I donât have valuable work to do here. This is a waste. So I sit in pain, longing for home, missing my wife, and feeling the weight of my desire to be elsewhere.
I guess Iâve spent the last week reflecting on how many hours of our lives we waste waiting. Not because we want to wait, or because we think itâs best to wait, but simply because we felt like it was socially appropriate to wait.
And yet Iâm afraid to share.
Iâm afraid to tell my manager any of this.
Well, at least I recognized this 6 weeks ago â my last day is Friday.
Iâll see you on the other side.
I enjoyed writing this.