So I emailed my folks tonight and asked if they’d mind supporting me financially, like they did for my first seventeen years. It would cost a little more, given the cost of living increase and my adult needs (car, place of my own, health insurance, entertainment and so on). But I think it’d make for a worthwhile investment for them. They shell out about $35,000 a year (I could ask for more, you know) for the next twenty years, then, when they turn 80, I take care of them completely. Financially, physically. Anything they need. I’m a good cook and I know where to put the bedpan. Stick ’em in a wheel chair and push ’em around all day. No biggie. But to them–man, that’s a lot. I mean, what kids care for their parents anymore? Nobody. We just ship our folks off to retirement homes and hope for the best.
So like I said, this is a pretty good deal.
Somehow, though, I doubt they’ll buy it. It’s sad, really.
I really enjoy staying home. I like sleeping in and playing with my dog and having friends over for dinner. I like staying up late watching Seinfeld. Most of all, I like writing. I like working on my own art and not having to go to the same place everyday so I can do something that is questionably meaningful.
I had a good conversation with Ant tonight about work. Somehow the conversation shifted to my work in particular and how it makes me feel about my place in the world. I don’t hate my job. Far from it. I generally like it quite a bit. But I don’t think it contributes much to society. Our world isn’t progressing much as a result of what I do. So if it doesn’t matter what I do to earn my keep, why can’t I just work from home? Why can’t I just write stories and get paid for it? I doubt anyone in the university system would miss me too much. And if they did, they could quickly find a replacement.
Am I whining? I don’t think so. I’m ruminating. I’m waxing existential. And the more I wax, the more I think it’d be pretty nice to have a freelance gig, to get paid to sit in my office in my house with my dog and write what I want to write.
Thing is, though, there’s no health insurance. Thing is, there’s not much social interaction. Thing is, I might not be disciplined enough. Thing is, it’s hard to find the kind of gig I’m looking for.
So that’s why I’m calling on my parents. They’re more likely to invest in my better interests than anyone, seeing as how they’ve done it before. The NEA? They don’t know me from Adam. I’ve nothing to show them, to prove to them that I would put their money to good use. But my folks? They know what I’m capable of. They may not be too terribly interested in what I do, but they know I’m not a failure. I mean, I wouldn’t just live off their cash–I’d use it to support myself as I write. What’d you think? Think I was planning to kick back and do nothing while the checks rolled in? Nah. Not me.
My plan’s never going to work. But I’m entitled to delusions of grandeur.