There’s not much to say, really, other than that once upon a time, I lived the proverbial dream. I quit the rat race, quit my country, and dared to dream that I could make it as a freelance writer. And I did. For ten years, I wrote copy for everyone from the King of Morocco and John McAfee to Superdry. During the same years, I wrote for thousands of startups in hundreds of different niches. Then COVID-19, AI, and getting older happened. Now the dream is over.
Worse, I’m at that 40s stage of life where you just can’t trust your farts anymore. Is it a fart? Will it act like a fart but betray me again and be a little bit more again this time? And oh my God, might I have bowel cancer?
I’m not getting checked. I don’t care. I can’t afford to get any older anyway. Hell, I don’t have enough disposable income to afford new underwear.
Being 40 in the 21st century is fucking hell. Your ass betrays you, your toenails start growing all wrong. If you’ve still got hair, it always looks like shit no matter what you do with it, and even more anti-miraculously, you can actually put on weight without eating. I can fast for a week and put on an extra chin.
If you’re like me and have baby boomer parents who somehow survived this second anti-puberty before you, you’ll also spend half of every month trying to find the courage to pick up the phone to beg for help paying next month’s rent. Then one night, a little light goes off in your brain where your multiplication tables used to be, and you’ll think, “Ah… Maybe this is what a midlife crisis is.”
Well, if it is, I’ve finally decided to fight back.
So what if no one wants to hire me? I’ll write anyway. After all, there are still things I’m passionate about, and unlike a machine, I can still tell a pretty engaging real human story when I want to. This blog is mine. And yes, some things you might find posted here might seem improbable. However, if you’re reading it here, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Enjoy. And maybe get a little enlightened in the process.