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Invest Mess: (aka want some cheese with that whine?)

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For some people, everything is an investment. Improve a skill here, get a personal trainer there. Pay a guy 300 an hour to show you how to not sound like a f*cking lugnut in front of an audience. It’s painful to be so ambitious. First thing is you have this dream to nurture. This big beautiful, indescribable thing that began to grow when you were making finger-painted masterpieces after snack time. a small fire in your belly grew and spread. While everyone else napped, you practiced your reading so you could learn to read yourself to sleep. While everyone else obsessed over groundbreaking things like what clique to sit with at lunch and how to go from the nerd puberty table to the cool puberty table, you focused on learning to pluck the south from your accent and speak slower. More professional. You missed parties for pageants. Your knees stayed nailed shut. No, not because you had to pee. To protect yourself from the babies! Sure, those living blessings become the aspirations for some people. But not you. Not even now. Not even at 25…

By 25 your dream is as big as you are and it is demanding that you INVEST. Now please see the irony. It’s not funny, but you have to laugh to keep from crying. More than likely if you resemble the person I’m describing you may not have majored in anything practical in college. Probably not accounting, or medical, or a law. Are you an artist? A writer? A speaker? Entrepreneur? Want to be a business owner and sell some kind of hand burnt jewelry you bent in your basement? Alright then, that’s great, but where is the startup cash! Everybody wants to help you out. You take workshop after workshop spending those Starbucks Barista checks on professional development that will ONLY work if you implement it a certain way. Just like that 400 dollar trainer you spent 3 months with, his method only worked when you did it a certain way. So try, try, and try again and suddenly you’re out of money kid.

I don’t shop. I don’t smoke. I don’t go out to score drugs. I literally only eat. You know why? My finances are all tied up in the Lets-Build-A-Better-Jacqui fund. Am I addicted to mentorship? I’m a quarter of a century old, why the hell am I still asking people to hold my hand? Ohhh nooo, I wrote this book and I don’t know how to market it to people, show me the way oh wise one, here’s my life savings! Ohhhh woe is me, I need to lose 30 pounds here take my money so you can tell me a salad is healthier than a doughnut. A 5 year old could have told me that! I COULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT. (no shade to personal training, but seriously only pay if you really bout that life).

No money right after graduation, no money since you’re paying for investments… and uh oh! Look at that, biological clock is ticking everyone, gather round! NO MONEY AFTER BABY! Seriously how the hell is this the greatest time in a person’s life. If you’re not like me and you’re in your field fresh out, you might still be nine to five because you just got a foot in the door. If you are like me and trying to build a life outside of nine to five, good luck on escaping the early throes of depression and anxiety! We took a chance. No one is fully informed at the tender age we have to decide what we want to do for the rest of our lives the first time, but man this is still scary, yeah?

So a non-cynical way of looking at this? Well at least I’m woke. I guess. I’ve never been so aware of the human condition, the American condition, My personal condition in life. This level of concern makes me feel more awake, alive, and alert than I have ever been. Every day is very purposeful, and my time is actually more valuable than my money.

On the darker side, however,

I’m also sometimes spiteful to the hands that help me that that’s pretty shitty right? I mean you pay. That’s how the world works. People name their price, you sign and you pay. But those prices go past a certain threshold and your like…what the f*ck? is there going to be a happy ending after this shit or what? Is he going to take me into his office and give me a foot rub? Does he think I’m a drug dealer on the side? or that I’m pimping  and paper chasing on the weekends?

I don’t really have the money, but somehow I’m spending it like I’m at a strip club and his name is Mr. Magic or some shit.

So me and Mr. magic are going  to work on getting me paid. I trust him. I’m happy I’m learning how to use something I love to do to get me paid. it’s Very simple… Probably could do it myself…

Gonna go cry now.

Yes I want cheese with my whine…and chocolate cake if you have it.


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