Having been part of a Scholar’s Bowl1Also known as Quiz Bowl, Trivia Bowl, Knowledge Bowl, Clash of the Nerds, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera… dynasty in high school, I have ingested many a nugget of cultural knowledge. However, this knowledge tends to be rather shallow, and while I have plenty of trivial trivia tid-bits permanently half-baked into my consciousness, very few of them are accompanied by enough context to keep me out of trouble.
Case in point: I really wanted to incorporate a literary reference into the title of this article. You know, everyone has their own burdens to bear in this life, and I wanted a title that signaled that I was willing to open up about one of my own in particular.
The first thing that came to mind was a hard-to-find German title called Mein Kampf, which roughly translates to English as My Struggle–ah! Perfect for the occasion!
But then I realized, “What just a tick! I’m starting to remember something else about that book. Oh yeah…that’s right. That’s Hitler’s autobiography.2https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mein_Kampf It was probably just about his childhood, so I think I can use it and still be kosher…”
Fortunately, it didn’t take more than about 20 seconds of Wikipedia research to thoroughly dissuade me of that idea. I mean HOLY SHIT, I’m not sure what I was expecting, but yeah, no…Hitler’s “origin story” is about the furthest one could get from being kosher, and I don’t care to be basing any titular puns on His Dark Materials.3Wait, that’s referring to something entirely different, you say?
I figured that this article had enough concerns of it’s own already going on that it didn’t need any unwanted anti-Semitism thrown into the mix, amiright? And in it’s place you instead get a reference to an obscure Czech novel4https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Unbearable_Lightness_of_Being by Milan Kundera, which, by the way, I’m pretty sure I’ve confused with The Importance of Being Ernest…
Most folks cruise through life without really ever having to really give fellatio much of a second thought.
But when your name is Blow Job? Well, you aren’t exactly afforded the luxury of living a life blissfully ignorant of the true meaning of such hedonistic acts.
In fact, I wasn’t even afforded a childhood of innocence.
You see, thanks to having an ample supply of older cousins and siblings, I was about 5 years old the first time when one of them smirkingly referred to me as Blow Job.
However, none of those jackasses decided to tell me what, exactly, a quote-unquote “blow job” was. I mean, I could at least infer that it was something less than flattering, but c’mon, we all know that no amount of standard logic would have ever led me to its true meaning.
So I spent a good two years of my childhood trying to figure out what the hell a blow job was before someone kindly filled me in.
Actually, I’m not sure that it was even a person who enlightened me. My memory wants to say I looked it up on Wikipedia, but we all know that no such thing existed in 1988, and I can’t imagine that I would have found that information in an encyclopedia. Yet, I strongly feel that I had to do my own ----- research to finally get some resolution in the matter. Maybe it was Webster’s Dictionary…?
Well, regardless of how it was that I found out, I remembering being one pissed off 7-year-old when I finally did.
No, it wasn’t because of the lewd and vulgar implications of those seven letters that had me up in arms.
I was incensed that the term made no ----- sense.
“Blow job”–who came up with that grossly inept euphemism anyways? Seriously, how is that even a remotely accurate description?
I mean, maybe the “job” part is dead-on, from what I understand now. Work is work, right? Otherwise, this choice of words really only serves to obfuscate the phrase’s true meaning…
Okay, I’ll get off my anti-blowjob6For the record, I’m very much a pro-fellatio fella–I’m just against that particular term. If that wasn’t patently obvious at this point. soapbox for the time being. You get the idea.
Now I’m pretty sure that it was no later than second grade before I had my eyes opened to this particular side of human nature. How can I be so certain of this timeline?
That’s because second grade was my last year going to school in Rolla before moving to Missouri, and I distinctly remember having a debate with a classmate in the lunch line there. By the time of this age-inappropriate conversation, I recall being well enough aware of oral sex and blow jobs, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
…except the problem was that I was confidently kidsplaining to my friend that, no, no, no, they were not the same thing. Oral sex, you see, is when your uncle calls a 1-900 number and talks dirty to the woman on the other end of the line…100% for sure that’s exactly what oral sex is.
Obviously, I had fallen prey to a common7Well, actually it’s probably uncommon.misconception;8Reproductive Pun #1. the truth is that neither of these acts of intimacy can lead to pregnancy, so it was more than appropriate that oral sex, to me, was inconceivable9Boom! Reproductive Pun #2.…
Exhibit A. “Oral sex.” I kept using that word…
Now all of this begs the question: what kind of cruel and/or perverse parents name their child “B.J.” in the first place? Who is responsible for inflicting such a trauma-filled life on their own youngins?
But one point of telling that story is that it’s not just a matter of who gets the blame for this whole fiasco–equally important is who doesn’t.
And in this case it behooves me to preemptively declare my dearest mother not guilty on all charges; I can’t afford to lose such a large chunk of my readership at this point…
You see, when I was an undergraduate at Kansas State, there was a solid 3 semesters in which I was a Secondary Education major. Yes, I had actually convinced myself that I was destined to be a high school physics teacher. It seems that the only person I’m actually capable of lying to is myself…or maybe I’m the only person gullible enough to believe me when I do lie? Hmmph. Never thought of that second option…
But I digress.
At some point during this self-delusional period of my college career, I decided to try to make a little money on the side by tutoring students in the freshman-level physics classes.
Being the master marketing wizard that I am, I slightly overcompensated for my mediocre understanding of the fundamentals of the topic, and chose a very subtle and nuanced email address to put on the flyers which were to advertise my services.
“Need a physics tutor? I can help! Email B.J. at physicismymiddlename@*******.com!”
Of course I was making an attempt at being mildly witty–I wasn’t taking myself super-seriously in selecting that name.
And apparently no one else was, either. It only took half a session for my first (and last) physics protege to realize $12 an hour was somehow simultaneously way too low, yet way too high of a price tag for my tutelage.
The point here is that when it comes to setting a price for your time or expertise, try to come up with as fair of a number in your mind as you can.
Then triple it.
Don’t feel bad about lying to yourself about how much you’re worth–the dirty truth is that clients want to be lied to.
I would have probably had much more success advertising a rate of $35/hour–an amount that says “I’m in high demand,” which, in the minds of potential tutees, is eagerly conflated with “he must provide a quality service if he’s in such high demand!”
So what I would really have been selling is my confidence. False or not, that is a lie most people are willing to buy.
But, noooo, I chose to sell the patently absurd lie that my parents legally burdened me with Physics as a middle name. Even I’m not that gullible.
A few autumns later, after I cured myself of the notion that I should be a teacher in any professional capacity, I made the move from Kansas to North Carolina to pursue an advanced degree in physics. #HumbleBrag
My bedroom at the new place had the walls painted the awfullest yellow with trim covered in the least complimentary blue possible,1It is possible for blue and yellow to be beautiful together; an excellent example of this is the flag of my ancestral Viking homeland, Sweden. so upon arrival in the new land, the very first order of business was to repaint that atrocious eye sore.
Fortunately, a couple of my Kansas friends had come along to help me move all my large furniture out, so there was three of us to tackle the paint job.
Now, when anyone helps you move or paint, it is customary to provide pizza as a token of gratitude. So once I got my friends up and running with the paint, I ducked out to find a local pizza place to procure some ‘preciation pie.
It being a college town, this was no problem at all, and I soon found myself ordering from a little joint called Amante’s…
Amante’s cashier: “…and can I get a name for that order?”
Me: “Sure! B.J.”
Amante’s cashier: “Uh…major?”
Me: “Physics.”
Amante’s cashier [quizzically]: “Physics?”
Me: “Yup! Physics!”
Amante’s cashier [with confused look on her face]: “Okaaaaaay.”
As I sat down and waited for my order to be ready, I ran the interaction through my mind, trying to figure out why something had seemed a little bit off about it.
I didn’t think it would be too unbelievable that I would be a Physics major, yet the cashier seemed oddly skeptical. Certainly I couldn’t have been the first person to take their back-to-school survey to have claimed that as their area of study.
Was it that I was blonde? Was I being stereotyped?
Was it my Viking-esque lion’s mane? Did my wild hair make me look too brutish to be a member of the intellectual elite?
These were interesting theorems in their own right, but still seemed to inadequately explain what had happened.
A few minutes later an employee came out from the back of the shop carrying a take-out box.
Employee: “Uh…’Physics’? I have a pizza for…Physics…I guess?”
Me: “Why do I have sneaky suspicion that must be mine?”
I opened the box and sure enough it was the pizza I had ordered, yet it had a sticker on it that said “Name: Physics.”
Driving back to my new place, I finally pieced together what the hell had happened.
She wasn’t asking for my major–she was asking if my name was ‘Major’.
My ----- big-ass lips had foiled me yet again: I said “B.J.”, yet she had heard “Major,” and was trying to figure out if she had heard me right. True, Major is not a common name, but at least it is a first name some people actually have.2For example…https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Major_(given_name)
As if her cognitive dissonance wasn’t great enough, I then reply with a completely different and even less believable name of “Physics.”
That look on her face that I couldn’t quite put my finger on? She was trying to figure out why in the world I was clearly lying to her about my name…and why the ----- I would choose such a ridiculous fake name.
The situation is exponentially absurd when you consider that, according to the throne of lies I sat upon at that point, I was claiming that both my first and middle names were Physics.
Any parent who would name their kid Physics Physics is somehow simultaneously way too creative, yet way too uncreative…
Anyways, when I get back to the house, my friend Andrew took one hard long look at the pizza box.
Andrew: “Who the ----- is Physics?”
Me: “It’s a long story… Maybe we should just go ahead and load all my stuff back up. I think I may have grossly over-estimated my own intelligence…”
The point of the story is Physics may not actually be that bad of a name, considering that my current moniker 1) just seems to generate confusion and delay when combined with the power of my big, juicy, mumbling lips, and 2) is a synonym for fellatio.
Oh, wait, that last one is the point of the next story…
To bring everyone up to speed, a few weeks ago I decided to get off my duff and get to developing some of the passive income streams that the Boss Lady had requested.
Trying to avoid the trap of overthinking every little decision, I decided to jump right into some internet maven’s guide to making money via Tumblr.1Tumblr is a micro-blogging site. My thoughts can’t be contained succinctly enough for a micro-blog. Pfffff.
Last I left you, I had honed in on the illusion of pets living in luxury as my niche–and hence the moniker The Prissy Pet Project.
Two of the primary motivations behind this choice were 1) if I picked something that I didn’t give a flying ----- about, then I could easily develop more passive income streams based around whatever arbitrary niche I or others chose; and 2) I loved how frickin’ absurd the whole idea seemed.
To that 2nd point: Luxury is such a poor investment of resources, why ya gonna go and double down on such a bad life choice by lavishing those little free-loaders who will never contribute to the household? At least with kids, the hope is that your investment will pay off come the day you can’t wipe your own ass and are at the mercy of others.3Been there, done that, and it suuuuucks. That story will most like show up at some point on the NSFM part of the Point’s Patreon page. So I confess that there is something seriously enticing about the idea of making money off a demographic that I feel little regrets looking long down my nose at…
But alas, I’m here today, sorrowful to inform you that we will not be profiting from pampered putty-tats anytime soon. I suppose putting the “ridicule” back into “ridiculous” will have to wait until another day…
Now that I’ve broken your hearts, we can move on to making progress on the overall project.
It’s interesting that I should use the word “progress,” as I haven’t really done anything concrete in either the physical or digital worlds since writing the last article on this topic.4@TheBossLady, for whom this functions as a project update: as of the actual writing and publishing of this article, I have made some concrete progress…I just don’t have time to talk about it right now.
However, the subconscious is a powerful processor, and while it may seem counterintuitive on the surface, distracting yourself away from a problem is often one of the most effective ways to solve it.
In fact, I’ve heard of an intriguing practice where you’re supposed to write a letter addressed to “Dear Future Genius Expert” laying out the problem vexing you, then mail it to yourself, having it delivered two weeks later. Then by time you consciously circle back around to the problem upon receipt of the letter, your sub-conscious has had a chance to really digest it, often leading to the pleasantly surprising discovery that you’ve already come up with a solution. I really want to try it out for myself sometime.
Anyways, all that micro-digression5Yes, that was indeed a micro-aggression pun. You’re welcome. to say that not forcing the issue with myself has really paid off. In the meantime, I’ve been able to refine my vision for this project, and have much more confidence and excitement moving forward.
Honestly, I think as soon as I said out loud “hey world, Ima be funny and develop a brand around fancy-ass animals” I could feel it in my gut that that would not be the topic of pursuit. Actually, come to think of it, I think it was really when I started doing a basic search on Tumblr for luxury/pet content that I thought “aww, poop. This was not a well thought-out and researched plan. Nuts.”
In fairness to me, at least I had made it clear in the previous post that my niche of passion was very much subject to change. Indubitably, my spidey-sense was telling me that I would want to explore more reasonable options. ----- you, Pragmatism. Foil me once, shame on you…
So, realizing that I was definitely going to want to keep my options open, in the back of my mind I slowly started ticking through the list of things that at least mildly interested me. With each one I would try to assess the passion others might have for it. Then, if it seemed like the potential candidate could merit a critical mass of consumers, I would try to size up how long I might be able to sustain interest in it.
One that I kept coming back to was what I like to call “Half-Ass Keto.”
Back in March of this year, I had come to a tipping point with my body. Despite working out fairly regularly, my excess body weight persisted, and in doing so was giving me all sorts of fits, particularly with my back and joints. Also, I was turning into a spitting image of my father, except that at 38 I was where he was weight-wise in his mid-40s.
It was at this particular moment in time when I happened to have the chance to catch up with a neighborhood friend I hadn’t seen in a few months. In the meantime, he had trimmed up fairly nicely, and attributed his success to the Keto diet. This mirrored similar success I had witnessed a close co-worker achieve over the previous 18 months using a similar approach.
With these two anecdotal data points at hand, I made up my mind then and there that I had to do something different, and that something might as well be Keto.
Now, surely almost everyone has heard of the Keto diet, where one consumes minimal carbs and primarily gets their caloric intake from fats, supplemented by proteins. Yeah, that one.
The idea is that you get your body into a bio-chemical state called ketosis, in which it develops a preference for burning fat over sugars.
The problem that I have with it is that it is totally bougie, almost as annoying as those Neanderthals amongst us who insist on sticking to a Paleo diet. The other issue I have is that I know myself well enough to know that it is not in the best interest of my mental health to try to force my body to walk a tightrope trying to stay in ketosis.
No, the punk-rock ethos in me insists that I refuse to adhere to the Keto principles religiously. However, by taking advantage of the vast Keto resources and eliminating the majority of carbs from my diet, I have actually been able to succeed in a sustainable manner.
Despite my half-ass commitment to the Keto cause,6As one astute co-worker put it, “So…you’re never actually in ketosis? Then aren’t you just on a low-carb diet then?” it has worked out pretty well.
Figure 1 illustrates this nicely, further dramatized by the 8-year window of data. In this view, my Half-Ass Keto adventure has been like driving my body weight off a cliff.
Figure 1. Eight years of historical weight data, explained.
The nice thing about Keto is that although it is something of a fad diet, it seems to have enough staying power that there should be significant interest in it for the foreseeable future. And there is definitely a tendency for those who get into to it to really get into it. Ergo, it checks my first box of something others are passionate about.
And although I’m not whole-heartedly, insanely passionate about Keto, I have enough interest in it to focus on it for this project.
So that’s most of the story of how I switched from luxury pets to Keto.
However, that’s only half the story…
For context for the rest of the story, the Boss Lady is half Korean, and because of this we regularly have our refrigerator stocked with one or two obscenely large jars of kimchi. For those not familiar, kimchi is a very traditional and very Korean side dish consisting of pickled and fermented vegetables. The most familiar of these would be Napa cabbage and daikon radish kimchis.
At some point in my Keto Half-Assery, I upped my kimchi game because, well, as my mother-in-law first explained it to me, “Kimchi: number two healthiest food in the world!”
We all really should be eating more kimchi anyways because it’s probiotic properties works wonders down unders, if you know what I mean.
It helps you poo real good, and healthy-like, too, is what I’m saying. So, while she didn’t intend it when she said it, it was comically appropriate that my MIL described it as the number two healthiest food.
Anyways, it was this particular property that made it a useful compliment to the Keto lifestyle, which–did you know?–is often plagued by chronic constipation. So it seemed like there would be some potential to meld the two concepts together.
Indeed, the point of the story is that my incessant constipation and kimchi consumption inspired the Boss Lady to suggest the great business idea of Keto-kimchi.7A surprising number of kimchi brands will add sugar, a mortal sin in Keto-land. And since many kimchis are naturally Keto-friendly, it occurred to me that we wouldn’t need to start a business to fulfill this idea. Rather, it would all be a game of marketing an existing product. Not that am I pro at that, but at least it’s much more conceivable than opening up a ----- factory, right?
With this idea in the peripheral vision of my mind, I realized that this flippant “make money off of Tumblr” project could actually morph into a much better change-the-world-for-good kimchi campaign.
Therefore, the current strategy is to try to build a Keto-centric following on Tumblr, then funnel that audience to my online kimchi shop, from which I can make a modest kimchi commission.
I must day though, I find this to be a rather funny thought: when the Boss Lady told me I should try exploring the idea of being my own boss, it never would have occurred to me to pursue the job title of Kimchi Baron. Yet here I am.
Speaking of titles, this leads to the next important step in monetizing Tumblr: branding. Success and failure can all hinge on nothing more than a pithy brand, so that requires a decent chunk of my attention.
Now, Kimchi King sounded like the first obvious choice, but whatdyaknow? It’s already taken. Naturally, my next thought was to hop onto Google Translate and see what kind of Korean wordplay I could come up with. But even the Korean word forking, wang, was taken. Wang Kimchi, sadly, is a no-go.
This little exercise degenerated incrementally. First I was looking into Korean synonyms for authority. So, king, ruler, lord, etc.
Oh? But then what’s that? Another member of that word family is master. Where have I used that term before?
(In case you’re curious as to the origins and relevance of that phrase, feel free to check out Paging Dr. Mix-A-Lot.)
At this point, the situation had become full-on degenerate: given that kimchi is so ----- good for your butt-health, an Ass-Master branded kimchi store would be oddly appropriate for the situation.
In my mind I could see the stars are aligning at this point. Remember me discussing asinine Venn diagrams?8Of course not. You have some catching up to do, and I forgive you for this. Read about it here. Well, it seemed like the circles of Make Easy Money on Tumblr, Score Major Points with the Boss Lady for Fleshing Out Her Brilliant Ideas, and All Things Ass were all converging to this singular point.
In my head, I couldn’t help thinking over and over: “Could it be? Am I the Chosen One? Am I destined to become the Ass-Master?!?”
Now, the only way to make this situation better is to add a fourth circle to the Venn diagram, Being Witty in Another Language.
I was chasing down all Korean variations of ass and master to see if I could come up with anything that would even roughly translate to my desired phrase.
…and this all led to this discovery:
Figure 2. “President” is close enough to “master”, right?
I hadn’t thought of exploring translations of master’s synonym (kinda), president. But where it really gets good is taking an even closer look at that particular Korean wordage:
Figure 3. The discovery of a digestion-related play on words.
So, if we’re in the business of compromising master for president, then we might as well accept what the universe has offered up to us and say that ileum is about as close to ass as we could hope for, right? It’s all digestion-related, so there’s that at least.
The point is that if President Ileum is a good enough translation of Ass Master, then in theory I could run with the brand:
회장 회장
which is latinized as hoejang-hoejang, which in turn can be bastardized as “Hey John…Hey John!”
It’s got a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?
Hey John…Hey John! brand kimchi: you will be president of your ileum in no time!
Advertisement voice-over
Alternatively, we could go off on a tangent and use President Ileum as inspiration for the next iteration of branding.
How about…
President Kimchi Jong Ileum brand kimchi: because if you’re going to abuse the Korean language and appropriate Korean culinary culture, you might as well piss off the Korea that has nuclear weapons while you’re at it…
The over-honest voice-over in my head
Well, folks, I’m going to have to leave you on the cliff-hanger of whether or not I fall ass-backwards into racism and/or a nuclear war with my branding.
Believe it or not, though, I have actually made real, concrete progress on the tasks of this project in the time since 22 November, but you’ll need to tune in next time9”Next time,” as in “before the end of the month of December.” to hear all about it…see you then!
Content created on: 22/30 November and 1 December 2019 (Fri/Sat/Sun).
@TheBossLady, for whom this functions as a project update: as of the actual writing and publishing of this article, I have made some concrete progress…I just don’t have time to talk about it right now.
Editor’s note: This is the B-List of Mediocre Life Tips. If you’re looking for the A-List, you can find it here.
Hello Dear Readers! I hope you found my first list of tips to be life-enhancing–or mildly thought-provoking at the very least.
These “tips” I share often tend to be arbitrary and capricious, and are merely methods and madness that I have found to work well [enough] for me. Heck, I can’t even claim credit for the vast majority of them. To be clear: this is not professional advice from a trained expert (though I doubt any of you were clinging onto my every last word like it was the Gospel of John to begin with…).
The reason I bring up the casual nature of my Life Tips is because I know how annoying it can be when someone makes a suggestion for you to act upon, but somehow they have a disproportionately burdensome expectation for you to follow through on their opinion. I mean, when was the last time you had a friend highly recommend you read their blog and just know that they’re judging you when it becomes obvious you haven’t followed through?1If you’re reading this, then it’s already too late.
So, to be clear, I have no expectations that anyone will actually follow these tips. Take them or leave them at your leisure.
However, I am very interested in hearing about all the random life tips y’all out there might have, so I highly encourage you to share them in the comments. I can’t make any promises that I will heed your words, but you never know who else is reading that may find your tip to be the perfect human-experience enhancing tidbit missing from their life.
So, without further rambling, here’s another Chernobyl Handful2TM? of ways that the icing on the cake of my life has been made just a wee bit sweeter.
6. I can’t promise that every Life Tip list will include a butter-centric entry, but the streak isn’t gonna end with this one! I love me some grilled cheese sandwiches, and enjoy finding different ways to turn them into slightly fancier culinary experiences. In addition to the bonus tip of using copious amounts of butter, I recommend adding a little sweetness to all that savory by adding some butter-grilled pear or apple slices.
Before you begin grilling the bread, throw them in the pan with a quarter stick of butter, turning once to ensure each side gets nice and caramelized. Bonus bonus tip: be sure to perform some “quality control” to make sure they’re delicious AF before adding them to your sandwich.
5. Fun fact: I actually worked in customer service for a cell phone company for a year and half between undergrad and grad school. Early on in that career, I attended a mandatory “How to talk to customers” class with all the other noobs. My take-away from that class was that with a few slight communication tweaks, many of my human interactions could be made significantly smoother.
The one that really stuck with me was the phrase “If you would, could you…?” used when asking something of someone. The beauty of this is that it reframes the situation from you demanding something of them to them having the opportunity to do you a favor.
Would you like that used in a sentence? Sure!
“If you would, could you subscribe to the Point of the Story’s newsletter, and share your favorite article(s) with everyone you know?”
No? Too thirsty?
4. If you’re like me, the shower is perhaps the most fertile ground for interesting thoughts. The downside to that is that you may find yourself losing more time than an alien abductee.
If you’re trying to conserve water or just need to stay on schedule, try picking out 1 or 2 Shower Jamz to listen to while you wash up. Their running time should roughly add up to your ideal shower time, which should clock in around 2-3 minutes (I personally have a lot of shower thoughts, so I need 5-6 minutes).
As always, a word of caution is warranted here. If you use YouTube to supply your hand-selected Jamz, your cheap ass may want to consider upgrading to the Ad-Free version.
Let’s just say that there is no greater motivation to get the ----- out of the shower than the prospect of being held captive for 6 minutes by a St. Jude’s commercial featuring real kids with adolescent leukemia.
*Whomp whomp whommmmmmmp*
3. If you want to rock out in the shower but don’t want to shell out the cash for a BlueTooth speaker, at least take advantage of the laws of physics readily available in the bathroom.
The projection of the audio from your phone speakers can be easily enhanced by setting it in the [dry] sink with the speaker facing the drain as best as possible. This is approximately the same geometry as a satellite dish receiver or many modern large-scale telescopes.
You may be thinking that I’m over-hyping the situation, though I suspect that is probably because you’re thinking of the word hyperbolic when the one you’re actually looking for is parabolic.
Boom! I award myself two points for nailing both a geometric and a linguistic reference in the same breath.
2. Do you love to eat oranges, but hate making a juicy mess every time you peel one?
I, too, was once like you…when I was 3, to be exact.
I have a distinct memory of getting fed up with getting covered in fresh OJ every time I wanted a citrusy snack without adult supervision. With the utmost determination, I set out to divine the perfect algorithm for peeling oranges. After about a week of practice and 12-18 oranges later, I had mastered the Art of the Orange.
And, yes, I was ----- proud of myself then, and ----- proud of myself now…apparently.
Now, most of my techniques would fall under the categories of either common sense or basic fine motor skills, so I won’t bore you with the details.
However, there was one innovation–at least by toddler standards–worth noting: get a clean start to the peeling process by biting skin-depth into the pedicel region (the “polar cap” containing the stem).
You’ll want to go all the way through the flavedo and almost all the way through the albedo,4Yes, I just learned those two terms. Indubitably. just stopping short of breaking the inner membrane. With any luck, you should be able to twist the cap off and pull out most of the central column with it.
Tada! You’re 1/3 of the way done, and not a single drop of juice on your fingers!
Years later in grad school, when I was about to enjoy an orange in the lab, one of my professors strolls in and was like, “Ha ha–you know how to peel an orange right?”
Okay, first I gotta point out that this was a very poorly phrased question and made him sound borderline condescending.
Anyways, I responded the same way any other non-3-year-old should: “Uh…I think so. Why do you ask?”
Despite his choice of words, he actually had a pretty good hack for peeling oranges that I promptly added to my repertoire: before peeling, roll the orange around on a solid surface for 30-60 seconds. This will work wonders for separating the peel from the flesh, all without even breaking the skin!
As a bonus, this method will also provide you with a wonderful palm massage.
1. Speaking of massages…good lord, ear massages! This life-changing tip comes to us from my Korean Umma5I.e. mother[in-law] via my wife–just so you know who you should really be thanking.
I promise you, once you’ve been introduced to these, you’ll wonder how you lived so long without them.
Ear massages are a great stress reliever, on-demand any time you need it! While they are fantastic as a gift given, there is no shame in a little self-lovin’ when given to one’s self.
Start out by grasping the lobule and slowly and firmly tugging downwards (Fig. 1A). Use enough force to almost be painful; the edge of discomfort is where the tension really gets released. Hold for 10-15 seconds, gently massaging the lobule between your thumb and index finger. Release. Repeat if desired.
Figure 1. Tugging techniques.
Likewise, tug the upper helix upwards (Fig. 1B) and the outer helix towards the back of your head (Fig. 1C), again holding for 10-15 second while gently massaging between your fingers.
Next you will want to release the tension in the opposite direction. This can be achieved by “folding” up the lobule such that it meets the tragus (aka the flap that could cover the ear canal–Fig. 2A), and then pressing the now-exposed underside of the lobule to apply firm pressure to the tragus underneath (Fig. 2B). Hold for 10-15 seconds before releasing. Repeat as desired.
Figure 2. Folding the lobule upwards.
As with the tugging technique, you will want to perform the analogous exercises for the upper helix (Figs. 3A, 3B) and the outer helix (not shown).
Figure 3. Folding the upper helix downwards.
The last part is my favorite part: the tragus. Pushing firmly at roughly a 45-degree angle into and toward the back of your head, pulsate the tragus at a rate of about once per second (Fig. 4A) for 10-15 seconds. End with constant pressure on the tragus (Fig. 4B) for a final 10 seconds.
Figure 4. Working the tragus.
These massages can be performed on one ear at a time, or simultaneously on both ears at the same time. The latter is particularly nice during the tragus-specific massages.
Ear massages are meant to be indulgent, so please, enjoy with reckless abandon.
Again, please share any random-ass Life Tips you may have in the comments below.
Er, I meant, “If you would, could you kindly share us your favorite Life Tips in the comments below?”
And, as always, check out the Life Tips page for all the wisdom accumulated herein. Shalom!
Everybody needs at least one constant truth in their life to keep them sane.
For me, that one truth was that I could always count on olives to be intolerably nasty.
I knew from an early age that olives and I weren’t going to get along.
For example, when I was 9 I had gone out to eat at our local Pizza Hut with my Little League baseball team after a game. Though I thought I had taken adequate precautions and picked all the chunks of olive off of my piece of Supreme pizza, apparently my youthful gluttony kicked in a second too soon as I recklessly jammed it into my eagerly awaiting proverbial pie-hole.
As soon as it touched the tip of my tongue, however, alarm bells were going off in my mouth. Like putting one’s hand on a hot stove, in an effort to protect itself, my body swiftly rejected the bite back into my hand and onto my plate. Sure as shit, there was the tiniest speck of olive hidden deep in the cheese. I vaguely remember muttering some comment to myself about the “damn nasty olive.”
I probably would have never remembered that last detail, except that the next day, my dad ripped me a proverbial new one, going off on me about how rude I had been. I guess somehow word about the non-event had gotten back to him, and for reasons that will forever be beyond me, he thought the appropriate reaction was to chew my ass out over it.
I was not pleased with him at all–I was like “Hey, I’m the victim here! Would it hurt to show a little sympathy for your wounded offspring?”
That may sound a little dramatic, but you have to understand, I had been thoroughly traumatized just from having that sharp, unpleasant sensation in my mouth for a mere 300 milliseconds. And then, to add insult to injury, I was being made out to be the village asshole over the whole ordeal. The olive had managed to screw me over twice in one shot.
So yeah, as far as I was concerned, olives could go pit themselves where the sun don’t shine.
For many a decade this animosity held true.
My dispassion for slimy mushrooms, once thought also to be a constant, gave way to a modest respect for their savory meatiness. Presidents came and went. The length and color(s) of my hair ebbed and flowed.
I even finally figured out how to convince a beautiful, competent, and kind female to hitch her star to my wagon.
Yet amidst this inevitable sea of change, like a solid rock I could plant my feet on, was the fact that olives were an agricultural atrocity–nay, a culinary catastrophe, I dare say.
It was shortly after I got married at the age of 27 that the first crack appeared in this rock.
I got to attend a physics conference in New Orleans, and since it coincided with the Boss Lady’s Spring Break,1No, I wasn’t robbing the cradle–she was getting her second degree in nursing when we met and got married. I got to bring her along for what was approximately a mini second honeymoon. I mean, I did have to give a short talk at the conference, so that was hanging over my head pretty much the whole week that we were there. But hey–we were in New Orleans, there was much to see and–more importantly–much to eat.
First day I was there, I went to a mini-conference related to my particular sub-field, and in all of the complimentary box lunches were muffulettas,2If you’re not familiar with these: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muffuletta. the quintessential New Orleans sandwich. The important detail here is that muffulettas must have a thick layer of olive salad, and of course my sandwich was no exception.
I was like, “hell no, mofo!” and promptly scraped all them revolting olives off. I didn’t care if I was being culturally insensitive–this one was on them because I know for a fact that olives are not even close to being universally loved.3Definite proof that I’m not alone in this: https://www.mic.com/articles/107536/if-you-absolutely-despise-olives-there-could-be-a-good-reason-why. What kind of presumptive pricks force feed everyone olives without offering any alternatives?
Anyways, later that same trip, whilst caught up in a romantic/adventurous moment with my lady friend, I…I…I, uh…I tried a muffuletta without taking the olives off.
It must have been the romance of it all, but…I kinda like it. Just a little bit though–just barely beyond “tolerable.”
Figure 1. An approximation of our magical moment with the muffuletta.
Interestingly, once back home, I found myself with an occasional hankering for muffulettas. That casual hankering slowly morphed into a craving, to the point where I even looked into having one shipped in from that particular deli for the Boss Lady’s birthday.
Like a mealtime MacGyver, I found that if I was really desperate I could improvise…with olives. It turns out that *gasp* olives and muffulettas taste awfully alot like each other. Go figure.
I was still in denial for a few more years though. I would reticently admit that, solely in the context of muffulettas, I could enjoy olives as part of the larger experience, but was adamant that I was still a hardcore oleaphobe.
Fittingly, it was on another physics-related business trip when I found myself stuck with two of my much elder professors/collaborators in the Philadelphia airport with an hour to kill before our flight home. Being distinguished and refined fellows, they gravitated towards the airports wine + olive bar, and dragged me along for the ride.
I think deep down, I wasn’t that resistant to the idea, but I had to at least pretend to put up a fight out of principle. You know, “Well, you can make me eat these fancy olives, but I don’t have to like it!”
I liked it.
I casually brought up my history with those “balls from hell”4I just recently picked up that term from here: https://www.mic.com/articles/107536/if-you-absolutely-despise-olives-there-could-be-a-good-reason-why (same as previous reference). with my associates, and I was somewhat surprised when our collaborator, J5Not my brother “J”–it’s actually spelled Jie in this case, but since it’s a Chinese name, we just use “J” since it perfectly conveys the pronunciation. (who I didn’t know as well), was like, “Oh yeah, that pretty accurately describes the trajectory of my relationship with them as well…” He went on to explain in depth about how he, too, once hated the ‘live, but had gradually come to appreciate the intricate nuances that awaited those intrepid enough to explore them.
It was in that moment that I finally found the courage to come to terms with man I had become.
It was official: I genuinely appreciated and enjoyed olives.
And you know what else I genuinely appreciated and enjoyed? The small gesture that J had made to share that sliver of life wisdom with me. While it may seem asinine on the surface, his act of incidental mentorship impacted me far greater than anything we ever did together academically. He opened my eyes to the possibility of a path that leads to discovering refined experiences in something I swore I would hate to my death.
No matter how old you are, it’s never too late to develop a new appreciation for an old nemesis. If I could come to openly love olives, then what else might I find myself enjoying when I revisit other things that I may have written off in the past, or not given a second thought to at all?
Ultimately, what he was showing me was a blueprint for personal growth, with the real gift being a much fuller and richer life ahead of me.
So J, if you ever read this, thank you. To everyone else, I hope that by trying to rub my little mini-spiritual journey off on you, your future life may be just wee bit more of a life fully lived.6I accidentally mistyped this as “foully lived”…and I was really tempted to not correct myself, because admit it, that version is waaaay better.
And the real point of the story is, if I could go back to the moment when I was slightly intoxicated on wine, olive brine, and life itself, I would turn to J and drunkly proclaim in my most obnoxious bro-voice…
“No, olive you, man.”
Now that you know how the story ends, I figure you might be interested in an origin story. They seem to be all the rage these days, no?
Earlier I chose to share an olive-related anecdote from when I was 9, but really my hate-hate relationship with olives goes back much further.
The first Thanksgiving7“Aha! So this is supposed to be a Thanksgiving-themed post, then?” you may be correctly asking yourself. that I can remember clearly, I remember for all the wrong reasons.
Although I was only 3 at the time, my dislike for olives had already been well-established in my mind. Like I said, it was a life-truth, something you just seemingly have known forever.
As with almost every Kansas Thanksgiving in my life, I was at my aunt’s house with pretty much every family member on my mom’s side. Specifically, this included my many siblings and cousins.
Since I was the next to youngest cousin at the time, it goes without saying that I was hanging out with a small gang of ones older than me. Oh, and speaking of constants, a constant at all of these late November family feasts would be a relish tray that would prominently feature black olives.
So, us kids being kids, the other members of my party started putting olives on each of their fingers, and would pretend to be some weird food version of Freddy Kruger. It looked like a blast, so naturally, I joined right in.
I was having fun playing with the food along with everyone else, when gradually they started eating the olives off their fingers. Of course, there was no way in hell that I was going to eat the ones on mine, so I went to go throw them away and be on my merry way.
However, before I could dispose of them, I was intercepted by either my grandma…or maybe it was an aunt? Surprisingly, I can’t remember exactly who to blame for scarring me for life.
Whoever it was, though, they were a real Food Fascist about it, insisting that I eat every single one of them, knowing full well how much I hated them.
I cried, I begged, I pled for mercy.
No dice. They stood firm in their position, and would not let me leave until I ate them all.
This Mediterranean Standoff went on for a good 15-20 minutes, which is, like, forever, in 3-year-old time.
Now, I’m not one given to using potty words, but this seriously ----- with my head.
I mean, they were being pure evil dickheads about it. For god’s sake, I was three.
I didn’t realize that by sticking my finger in their pit-holes, I was effectively committing myself to consummating my relationship with the olives via consumption. I was just having a little fun with my cousins. Why was this adult all up in my shit, yo?
As for my clean-fingered cousins, they all bailed on me, so I was left with no one to defend me, nary a soul to champion my cause. They had lured me into the situation, and then were like, “Well, it sounds like you got a real you problem, now don’t you? See ya!”
In the end all the crying in the world didn’t get me anywhere. I vaguely remember gagging them down one by one, and even though I have a much evolved appreciation for them now, as I recollect this experience in writing this, it still makes me vomit a wee bit in my mouth. And though I describe the memory as “vague” I think that is only because I’ve seriously tried to block out this core traumatic even from my childhood.
If you can’t tell by the way I write about it, this has stuck with me my whole life, and not in a positive way. Let’s just say I’m not a big fan of arbitrary enforcement of arbitrary rules. Fairness is important to me, and this is one of the experiences that helped shape that into a more severe version than what might be considered healthy.
Figure 2: How I felt about olives for the first ~29 years of my life.
Case in point: one of the couple of the Thanksgivings I was in grad school but before I got married, I was spending it at my brother’s house with his family. My nephew, who was 3 or 4 at the time, tried pulling the same shit with the olives on the fingers just as I had at that age.
Now, it is a natural part of the human psyche for the abused to often become the abuser, and I there I found myself, attempting to perpetuate the vicious cycle of olive-eating enforcement. If I had to suffer that dumbass rule, then why should he get out of it, huh? Where’s the fairness in that?
It may surprise you, but when my sister came along, she did not back me up at all on that point–nor did my brother who eventually joined us. We had a good 5-minute argument about it, but in the end, those olives went to waste.
Truth be told, I was actually relieved that I was unsuccessful. I really don’t wish my early olive experience on anyone, and I would hate to have been the one to scar my nephew for NO ----- REASON.
So…this Thanksgiving, give thanks that you’re not a grown man who probably really should see a therapist concerning what, in this doctor’s humble opinion, appears to be…some sort of weird Stockholm Syndrome?
To quote a favorite band of mine:
Boy, you just don’t know how lucky you are.
Electric Six, Infected girls
Content created on: 23/24 November 2019 (Sat/Sun).
Not my brother “J”–it’s actually spelled Jie in this case, but since it’s a Chinese name, we just use “J” since it perfectly conveys the pronunciation.
I recently had the pleasure of seeing Jerry Seinfeld live, and something he said reminded me how much of an under-rated philosopher1I shit thee not, I have to credit the wisdom of Seinfeld for my marriage to a woman waaaaaay out of my league…one day, Young Grasshopper, I will regale you with that tale… he is:
“Forget the best–if you want to be happy in life, then ask for good enough. I don’t want to eat at the best restaurant–too much pressure and almost inevitable disappointment. Point me to a good enough restaurant and I’ll be 10 times happier.”
Jerome Seinfeld
So in honor of the genius behind “The show about nothing,” and also to throw a bone to the list-loving Bourgeois at there, I present to you 6 random middle-of-the-road Life Tips, in no particular order.
Are they the best Life Tips I have to offer? Ah, hecks, no. But, meh, good enough, right?
Without further ado, I present to you…
When eating toast, don’t settle for a peasant’s meal–butter both sides of the bread for an instant fancy feast. Because nothing says “damn straight, I’m worth it” like an extra pat of butter…
Speaking of “butt” and “both sides”…if you have somehow walked through life without being introduced to the pure revelation that are buttwipes, then chances are you’ve been walking through life with some unnecessarily crusty cheeks. Seriously folks, once you go Cottonelle,2Personally, my family uses Kirkland Signature Moist Flushable Wipes, available at your local Costco. you can never go back. I was 26 before my future wife showed me the light, and I seriously wonder how the hell I lived with myself for those first 25 years.
A word of caution though: if you or a loved one own a sceptic tank, you might want to consider trying to get by on half a wipe per flush. My in-laws didn’t use them until the year that the Boss Lady and I lived with them. Five months in and they had to pump the sceptic tank way ahead of schedule. You can imagine my father-in-law was not pleased when out came wad after wad of wipes–it was visceral evidence that our high-falutin’ hygienic habits of the heinie were the reason he was out $2000.
After hearing stories like that, it easy to understand why the packaging for these products are so very adamant about only flushing one at at time–almost rising to a comical level, even. But…PSSST! I have a secret for you: if you find yourself mildly displeased with your job and really want to stick it to The Man, do like I doo-doo, and flush 2 at a time when doing your business at work. That’ll show ’em.
Ahh, the simple guilty pleasures in life…
Are you tired of freezing your ass off after getting out of a nice warm shower? When I was about 7 or so, I realized that the hotter the shower, the more miserable I was when I got out into the air that was now relatively even more cold. It occurred to me that if the hot water was the problem, then logically, ice cold water should be the solution. I soon found myself in the habit of blasting myself with the coldest water possible for as long as I could bear, ~30-60 seconds, right before getting out of the shower–something I’ve done with every single shower I’ve taken since then. It wasn’t until roughly 30 years later before I was made aware of the scientific literature supporting similar practices.3Just google “cold shower circulation” for a selection of references. I guess I was just a boy years ahead of his time…#HumbleBrag?
Feeling frisky and want to tempt a date with diabetes? Then grab that bottle of Hershey’s syrup, and apply directly to the soda pop of your choice! I personally prefer chocolatinated Dr. Pepper or Pepsi.
This next tip is courtesy of my beloved mother. It was only in the last few weeks that I learned that she has this ritual of sending a different, typically higher-end, tea bag with the hand-written letters she sends to her long-distance friends, and likewise they do the same. So in addition to reading a heart-warming letter from a dear old friend, they brew up the tea and simultaneously enjoy having their bodies warmed in a delightful new way each time as well. Such a touching and thoughtful gesture is about enough to make me want to dust off my cursive skills and start hand-writing letters to my friends…almost.
Are your blog posts just too ----- long? Why not just split them in two! No one will ever notice you’re 4 short of a Top-10 list anyways. And as bonus, you’ve already got next Thursday’s post done as well!
I shit thee not, I have to credit the wisdom of Seinfeld for my marriage to a woman waaaaaay out of my league…one day, Young Grasshopper, I will regale you with that tale…
Everybody knows that Automated Teller Machines can dispense cash, but did you know that you can make deposits at these so-called “ATMs” as well?
Amazing.
Simply, simply amazing what technology can do these days…*shakes head, low-whistles*
More amazing is that any adult would not already know this fact.
Now, if you didn’t know this tidbit of adulting trivia already, and feel a bit insulted by me pointing out your astounding ignorance, don’t let your feathers get too kerfluffled. You wouldn’t be the first beautiful mind to get tripped up on this.
In fact, I would say that you’re in good company.
Today, as I deposited a couple of checks at a conveniently located ATM–without an envelope, mind you–I marveled at how buttery-smooth of a transaction it was.
Especially compared to the very first time I made an ATM deposit of my own…
It was the Summer of 2002, and sure, like any other 21-year-old I had had my share of casual encounters with ATMs, but nothing, you know, like anything serious.
Usually these encounters would consist of me quickly entering my PIN, and then pulling out a small wad of cash in a well-timed manner. One might say that my withdrawal method1Ladies and gentlemen, the best latin phrase in the world:https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/withdrawal-method/about/pac-20395283. was impeccable.
But when it came to any truly meaningful banking transactions devoid of a human intermediary, let’s face the cold hard facts: I was basically an ATM virgin.
And little did I know, but I was about to get deflowered.
Ah, yes, the Summer of ’02: I was working as a counselor at a summer camp about 15 minutes outside of the Greater Kansas City metro area.
Usually on the weekends, me and a handful of the other counselors would stay at the camp and just laze about eating all the leftover cafeteria-style pizza, honing our skills on the Blob, or just generally chillaxing pool-side. You know, living the high life.
On occasion, though, we would venture into KC for a lazy Saturday afternoon adventure. One Saturday in particular, no one else was around, so I decided to set out on my own.
But this day, I was on a mission.
You see, I wasn’t making very much money in this gig, but the paychecks were large enough that they belonged in the safety of my bank account. But, alas, during the work week, we were with the kids literally 24/7,2Legally required to be so, in fact. so it was virtually impossible to get to a bank during their regular business hours.
I’m sure I ran other errands that day, but the one I really needed to take care of was depositing those paychecks.
I don’t precisely recollect, but it is entirely possible that I wasn’t planning on getting screwed by an ATM that day. There is a decent chance I rolled up to the local branch of my bank fully expecting it to be open on a Saturday. Like I said, I was young and naive. Don’t judge me…yet.
So anyways, there I was, alone with the ATM. I was nervous and not sure of myself at all. It was awkward.
It being my first time, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Like…where I do even put it in, right?
My dad never sat me down and showed me around the delicate parts of an ATM, you know? He just never had that talk with me. I guess he figured I would pick up on the whole personal finance thing from movies and TV shows.
Despite the lack of parental guidance, I found the slot where I was supposed to enter the checks easily enough. But it was totally unclear to me how to get that slot to bloom like a lotus and allow me to make my deposit.
Ah! Envelopes! I found the deposit envelopes nearby, and, like any financially responsible adult, gently wrapped my signed checks inside the safety of the sturdy white walls of one of them.
At this point, I had one thought that kept nagging in the back of my mind. Say that I figured out how to get my envelope full of checks in that slot…then what? I seriously was concerned that, devoid of any explicit contextual information, come Monday the bank was going to get a bunch of signed checks and have no way of knowing that the funds belonged in my account.
Thinking it odd that the only thing they asked for on the envelope was the deposit amount, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I dug up a pen in my car, and wrote my full name on the envelope.
But I didn’t stop there. I needed that money to post to my account on time and I was leaving nothing to chance. So I wrote my full account number on there, too. Probably my address and phone number as well.
Hell, I think I may have even gone as far as putting my Social Security number on there.
By time I was done, I had that envelope covered front and back with inky, inky unsolicited information. I mean, I feel like only Ken Burns could put together something more well-documented than the work of art that I held in my hands.
But, I was confident that there would be no mistake about into whose account that money should go. And that’s what really mattered.
Certain that I had that dragon slain, I turned my attention back to the obvious problem of getting the envelope inside the ATM.
I tried everything I could think of, even going as far as forcing the slot open and trying to jam the envelope in. I was truly at a loss for why it wouldn’t just slide in. In fact, the envelope was getting a bit ragged and torn from the attempted forced entry. It wasn’t pretty.
I knew in my heart of hearts that there had to be a way to make the ----- deposit, but my mind couldn’t make sense of anything.
At this point, I had probably spent at least half an hour wrestling with this mother ----- Automated Teller Machine. And it was a hot mid-summer day. And I was covered in stress-sweat on top of that, as I was really freaking out about getting my checks deposited. I was dripping wet and feeling a little nasty, but in the most of uncomfortable of ways.
Let’s see if I can put this politely:
I was the one who had tried forcing themselves upon a poor defenseless machine, so it was ironic3Or an alternate theory: poetic. that in the end I was the one who felt sodomized.
Truly, technology had found me in the Alps.4This makes complete sense once you read The Alpine Stranger.
My spirit crushed, I finally gave up. I sat on the curb next to the ATM in defeat and tried my best to not sob gently to myself.
I was a lost soul adrift at sea, with no one to guide me to shore.
I never imagined in my wildest dreams that a piece of technology could cut me so deeply to the core. Yet there I was, with ink-stained hands and lightly covered in paper dust, a completely broken man.
I finally gathered myself and formed a new game plan. I just might be able to make it to Monday without overdrafting, and then maybe my boss would have mercy on my poor soul and let me run to town early in the morning when the bank was actually open.
I whipped out my debit card and stuck it into the ATM to double-check the balance on my account.
And that’s when I saw it: on the ATM’s touch screen flickered the option to Deposit Checks.
Profound is the only word I can really come up with to describe that moment of realization.
Yes, “profound”, as in, “Never have I felt so profoundly dumb in my life…”
Even to this day I am embarrassed by the sheer stupidity I exhibited for a good sustained 30+ minutes. I don’t even know how it was humanly possible to go through all those mental exercises and miss the TOTALLY OBVIOUS solution of using my debit card and PIN. Like, how would this not be the very first thing any human being would do at the beginning of any ATM interaction?
*Slaps forehead*
Of course in retrospect it all made waaaaay too much sense. Of course my debit card would be intrinsically tied to my bank account. Of course a touch-button would appear that I could press to tell the ATM I wanted to it to open its slot and take my check-laden envelope inside itself. Of course they could easily correlate said envelope with the ATM transaction that was initiated with my card. Of course this multi-billion dollar industry had already figured all this shit out. Of ----- course.
All that aside, I was so relieved to have finally solved the mystery that I didn’t really care how much of a dummy I may have looked like. I mean, there was no witnesses to this fiasco, after all.
Well, almost no witnesses. I can only imagine the unsuspecting teller who was processing the weekend’s deposits as they came across my busted-ass, half-shredded, vandalized-looking envelope:
The point of the story is, if you ever find yourself in the slim minority of people who has had to seriously question whether they actually have the basic intelligence needed to survive adulthood, just remember there is hope.
Despite getting my ass handed to me by an ATM in my youth, I survived to go on to earn an advanced degree in physics.
#HumbleBrag
Oh, and amazingly, I still love technology. Always and forever…
Content created on: 13-15 November, 2019 (Wed/Thur/Fri).
Lately, I’ve been kicking around the idea of getting myself some nice business cards. However, there’s just one problem: I have no idea how to describe myself in a professional context.
Yes, the dream is to have underneath my name the description My Own ----- Boss, but ironically I couldn’t be further from that at the moment, on account of me currently serving not one but two mistresses.1Mistress, as in the feminine form of Master. Please do not mistake that phrase as an admission of multiple romantic partners. I’m not that cool. So I need to come up with something more accurate in the meantime.
Currently, I would say my best guess is Half-Ass Life Philosopher. Yes, it may be a little pompous to try to claim the moniker of Philosopher–that’s why I want to stress the Half-Ass qualifier here. But, I gotta confess: I really do enjoy just sitting around and thinking about life.
Now, I wish I were a more noble breed of a thinker, pondering the depths of the universe, questioning the basis of our knowledge of reality, and what-not, but let’s face it, I’m no Plato.
I’m more like one of those modern “found art” artists who don’t make the art themselves, rather they just “find” it, and then somehow claim that they deserve accolades for just pointing at something random and saying “Hey look at that thing. I, as an inherently interesting person, do bequeath and impart my interestingness-hood to that thingy. Behold! When you look at it, think of how awesome I am!”
Or something like that.
The point of the story is, there are interesting bits of wisdom floating all around us; all you have to do is reach out and grab one of the little nuggets, and you, too, can call yourself a “philosopher.”
But if you hope to find yourself some life philosophy, it really helps to know where to look.
Me? I personally recommend you start by looking underneath the mattress of your brother’s bed…
You see, me and my older brother J. came of age in the mid-nineties. We didn’t have any of the awesome technology that offers an unlimited supply of entertainment and content that the kids these days have. On top of that, we rarely had much spending money, so we had to use our imaginations and be resourceful on a regular basis just to survive.
To meet our candy needs, we did things like, say, dressing up as twins for Halloween.
Instead of going out and buying the latest back-beat laden musical album on tape or CD, we spent many a hour listening intently to those radio stations we weren’t supposed to, waiting for our favorites jams to come on, and then in turn excitedly jamming the Record button to capture those sweet, sweet forbidden tunes on our trusty recordable cassette tapes.
And to placate the urges of our youthful curiosity, we had to resort to the classic tactic of intercepting Victoria’s Secret catalogs in the mail. Or, if one was really lucky, Frederick’s of Hollywood.
When I was in eighth grade and he a sophomore in high school, due to a series of asshole-induced life events, J. and I found ourselves living as illegal residents on a California military base with the family of one of our older siblings. Due to the lack of space, we were forced to share a room.
But, on the bright side, at least we had our own beds.
That came in handy when one day I fortuitously came across a Victoria’s/Frederick’s piece of high-brow literature in the family mailbox, and needed a secure location in which to store it.
If I had been more forward thinking, I would have stashed it under J.’s mattress. However, that was not the case, and instead kept the incriminating goods close to me under my own mattress.
Eventually the inevitable happened, and our dear mother came across the contraband reading material.
Now, one would think that it would have been an open-and-shut case against me, right? After all, the catalog was literally found on my personal property.
It just so happened, though, that I knew of a little ol’ philosopher named Occam, and his infamous Razor, which roughly states, “the simplest solution is most likely the right one.”2https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occam’s_razor
And in this case, I knew that Mom would find it much simpler to believe the theory that J.–a perpetual rebel and thorn in her side–would be keeping his naughty magazines under the mattress of his Mama’s Boy little brother.
So you better ----- well believe I told her that J. was trying to frame me, instead of the other way around.
Even when she gathered both of us in the room and demanded we get to the bottom of The Mystery of Which of My Teen Boys Has Been Looking at Lingerie Catalogs, I managed to stick to my guns and maintain the lie.3For the record, this was waaaay out of character for me; I’m horribly bad at lying.
Ohhhhh, was J. ever pissed. Despite his protestations that it wasn’t his, and his “why are you doing this to me?!?” hurled in my general direction, Mom found my character to be much more impeccable than his, and in the end he got his ass grounded for a week, while I got off scot-free.
I really don’t feel too bad for making him my patsy, though. Growing up, he had a real bad habit of dragging my innocent-if-not-under-the-influence-of-others butt into all sorts of trouble.
I may have been a rascal, but he was a ----- troublemaker. It was nice to turn the tables on him for once…
The immoral of the story is this:
Kids, take the time to build that sacred trust with your parents. One day you just might need to cash in a bit of that currency to frame your brother for your embarrassing misdeeds…
Figure 1. Sorry, Bro, but the glove doth fit…
Oh, speaking of Victoria’s Secret, one time when I was in high school I saw one of the “Angels” in a totally different context–on E! or some entertainment channel like that–and turned to my stepmother and made some comment like “Hey, I know her from someone! Cool! I just can’t remember from where though…”
It wasn’t until later that I realized where exactly I had seen her before, and that in theory, her face should have been completely unfamiliar to me.
The only thing I could do then was just hope and pray Daisy4My stepmother’s alias. would never put two and two together and realize that maybe just perhaps perchance I was pilfering her postal publications on occasion.
Fortunately she never did, but I did learn a valuable lesson from it at least:
There’s nothing like getting ratted out by your own sub-conscious reaction when you recognize something you totally shouldn’t. Kids, keep your nose clean and hopefully you’ll never have to worry about becoming Your Own ----- Judas.
Like I said, there’s wisdom to be discovered everywhere.
As I oh-so-ramblingly mentioned in my most recent post, Epitaph, I have greater plans for this blog than it just being a written repository of every single memory I can conjure up.
I actually hope to provide useful information for my Dear Readers.
I know, I know. It’s a ludicrous proposition. I’ll give you a moment to laugh it out.
Okay, now that you got your giggles out, I would like to get down to business, if you don’t mind.
While I have a couple of alternative-income generating adventures in my back pocket,1Fear not, those tales will be shared here in due time… I thought I would start off with an undertaking that y’all could be a part of from the very beginning.
With that in mind, let me try to set your expectations to a realistic level.
First, it is entirely possible that this could be, um, less than profitable. A word of caution to those who would be tempted to play along at home: you might want to wait a couple of episodes before trying anything out for yourself. Which brings me to…
Point #2: Mistakes Will Be Made. Let me make them so you don’t have to! Speaking from experience–namely my side hustle as a “small-time ticket broker”–I can say that there’s a pretty good chance that there will be a few pitfalls into which I will pitfall, and in doing so, allow those who follow in my footsteps to side step them with deftness and ease. In fact, I’m actually banking on a certain level of follies, as my mistakes == useful information for the public == maybe some sweet blog-generated coin. With any luck, some of them might be entertaining as well.
And that segues into my 3rd caveat: I also run the real risk of being successful without any interesting incident of which to speak. What if…mistakes aren’t made? I would say this is the worst-case scenario I can imagine: a series of boring blog posts. Oh, the humor-anity.
Finally, the last comment I have before I dive in is an important one: I make zero guarantee that any of my business ventures embarked upon herein necessarily contribute meaningfully to society. However, that by no means mean that they will be devoid of any and all ethical standards. It’s just that we all need to be okay with the idea that we’re not probably going to be curing cancer or solving world hunger any time soon.
In the bigger picture though, there’s a chance that I might fall ass-backwards into doing something halfway noble. Our2Our, as in collectively between me and the Boss Lady larger strategy is for me to develop passive income streams on an ongoing and, eventually, full-time basis.3I’m actually My Own ----- Boss for half of the work week; I still daylight as a scientist the other 20 hours/week. Though it might take a year or three, in time the Boss Lady will be able to quit her 9-to-5 job as well and be able to pursue her more refined passions.
So, in the beginning, I’m comfortable with just about any legit income, as my focus is to cover the lower levels of my family’s Hierarchy of Needs (see Figure 1).4As first mentioned inEpitaph: A Preface to Passive Income Adventures To Come.
Importantly, though, if I’m doing the whole “passive” thing correctly, then in theory the amount coming in on a monthly basis will be cumulative (gray arrow in Figure 1). As I complete projects and move them into their minimal maintenance phase, that base monthly amount will cover higher and higher levels of our Hierarchy of Needs pyramid, allowing more room to take greater risks on projects that are more high-minded and virtuous, despite having less certainty of a financial pay-off.
When we get to the point where the minimal-effort monies reach the top level, Self-Actualization, that’s when the real fun begins. You can imagine this situation as sort of a boot-strapped MacArther Genius Grant: without having to worry about making money, our Inner Clevernesses (me) and Kindnesses (the Boss Lady) will have full freedom to flourish to their fullest potential and beyond.5…the grave! (See sentence following for context).
What’s my secret ambition, you ask?
Well, I’m a bit sheepish to say this out loud…but the most ridiculous thing I can think of–and therefore aspire to–is to find the cure for ghosts.
Altruism so great that it needs multiple planes of existence to contain it? All I have to say is: Suck on that, Bill Gates!
Genius, my ass.
Figure 1: Anything above the “$”s in the gray arrow are needs that I have to spend resources trying to fulfill. The more $$$, the more creative I can be with how I meet those increasingly complex needs.
Okay, so I kinda got far afield there. In the process of writing this, I’ve realized that all that I’ve said so far is actually what I was hoping to say in the Epitaph post before I got distracted with that online headstone simulator. So I guess it’s fitting that somehow it circled back round to the topic of mortality.
Anyways, I have a working theory for the reason I spent several extra paragraphs trying to convince you that I’m ultimately going to do something super awesome for all human-kind: I’m over-compensating for the vapid and asinine nature of what is about to happen here.
Without further ado, let’s begin, shall we?
Prologue
As I mature in years and accumulate life wisdom, one thing that has changed significantly is my understanding of what truly constitutes “hard work.”
Growing up as an indentured servant to the family farm, I’m no stranger to working hard. Hell, I’ve even pulled a 72-hour shift while drilling an irrigation well with my dad. That’s a story you’ll get to hear more about eventually–though, surprisingly, it’s just going to be used as a pretext for me to philosophize about pancakes. Go figure.
Anyways, for the longest time I couldn’t figure out why it was so difficult for me, armed to the tooth with an eager willingness to labor intensively, to parlay that enthusiasm into a stellar scientific/engineering career.
You need someone to help you move? I’m your go-to guy!
Do you have to dig up your back yard and fill it in with gravel before bricking it over, but live in a condo and therefore have to traipse through the condo to deliver the gravel one bucket at a time? You can bet your ass I’ll be there for you, Friend! Even if I have chronic back issues for the rest of my life because of it!6Yes, this is yet another story whose time to be told is yet to come.
Well, at some point in time within the last 5 years, I happened to borrow a book from my scientific mentor approximately entitled “Getting Shit Done” (or something close to that). I’m pretty sure that it was from reading this that got my mental wheels turning, eventually coming to the conclusion that I’ve grossly mischaracterized hard work my whole life.
It’s decision making that is truly the exhausting activity in which one could engage. Once that lightbulb went off, I immediately understood why CEOs and other business executives get compensated so very handsomely: they’re being paid to constantly make decisions on matters of consequence. Over and over…endlessly…with minimal time to really mull them over.
Good gravy, I’m plumb exhausted just imagining that.
The point being, this insight largely drives a guiding principle of our current exercise: don’t waste disproportional amounts of energy trying to make the perfect decision. Good enough! shall be our battle cry. We need to get shit done and get money rolling in.
I’ve got ghosts to emancipate, and have only so much time before I become one myself…
Below are the first several journal entries of my inaugural Point of the Story Passive Pursuit, with more to come in future blog posts as the adventure plays out in real time.
21 October 2019 (Monday)
With the bulk of the effort of getting this blog up and running behind me, and nearing the end of wrapping up my other main project, optimization of the extended familial real estate situation, it is time for me to set my sights on focusing on bringing new money into the family coffers. In reference to the guiding principle of good enough just laid out above, it’s not important that I pick the perfect pursuit now–it’s more important that I’m doing something.
That something turned out to be me Googling “how to make money on Tumblr”, which in turn led me to a decent in-depth tutorial,7https://www.onlinedimes.com/how-make-money-on-tumblr/; it is implied that all further screenshots in the post are attributed to this website. which shall be our project’s blueprint.
Figure 2. Franklin, our humble guide.
I mean, hey, why not, right? The less decisions, the better, and I might as well stand on the shoulders of this internet giant. —>
Looking over his page, I did notice that is hard to tell how old this post is and if things will work exactly as described. I couldn’t find a date indicating when it was published, nor any dates associated with the comments. I did see one screen shot showing the date 2015, so it’s not older than that, but it is still unclear at what point in time it was published since then.
That notwithstanding, he fairly quickly lays out the main ingredients to harness the power of Tumblr for capital gains purposes:
Let’s try to assess how my skills and experience match up with this list, and identify those tasks I think might either require significant effort and/or are unfamiliar enough to me that it is hard estimate the required effort.
Okay, so of these, I have experience setting up Web Hosting. At least I got that going for me.
Setting up a Tumblr Account should be fairly easy, and with this guide, the Automated Posting System should be no problem either.
I don’t know how much work will go into setting up an Amazon Associates Account, but I guess I’ll find out!
It really seems the most decision making–the real drain of mental energy–will go in to deciding on “A Passionate Niche”.
Fortunately, the article goes on to provide some guidance:
On a side note, I find it curious and amusing that adult content is conspicuously absent, but it is just as well.8Not that I would have seriously considered it, its just that given that it is indubitably a highly profitable for those who choose that path, one would expect it to at least get a shout out… You see, I need to have an endeavor I can fully stand behind, and perhaps even bring my girls onboard so they can start building their own ----- college fund.
So, sex & drugs are out of the question. Rock n’ roll, however, is NOT out of the question, but my spidey sense is telling me to pocket that idea for now, and maybe use it later if I decide to develop several of these types of projects.
Back to finding a niche: well, when I think about it, it is not immediately obvious what I am passionate about, so I’m going to need some divine inspiration here. This list is a decent place to at least start forming some ideas…
Now, spoiler alert, I’ve already skipped ahead and got a fuller idea of how Tumblr shenanigans can be monetized, and a key aspect of this guy’s strategy is that people will buy things related to that niche. More importantly, other purchases they make on Amazon somehow get credited to you and you make commission off of these non-niche sales.
With that in mind “Luxury” caught my attention. Why? Well, it’s all about correlation right? I want to find a niche in which people who tend to buy items related to that topic are likely to make large & expensive unrelated purchases.
Fancy people be buying fancy stuff, yo. So I’m thinking going with luxury might be something that will pay dividends exponentially.
Now, this article goes on to describe various ways to find your own personal niche, particularly ones that are profitable. It is left to the reader as an exercise to go through this process for themselves. For me, I’m sticking with the principle of good enough, remember?
After reading through the whole article, I’ve decided to leave my mind to percolate over ideas for a while. At this point in time, I’m not even sure I’m to take any action or even make a plan. For now, I’m doing just a quick read-over of what this method entails and think a little bit more if it’s worth the time investment.
Really, though, without knowing what niche I want to pursue, it is hard to take any concrete action. And without concrete action to take, the details of the scheme are hard to retain without the immediate context.
5 November 2019 (Tuesday)
It is becoming clear that I need to really just start trying different revenue streams and see which ones actually are viable sources of income. Most of the candidates I’ve considered pursing would largely be described as internet entrepreneurship, in that they don’t involve me handling much physical items (inventory, etc), and are largely done via the internet. Amazon drop shipping, online tee-shirt shop, etc, are examples of these. Another common key factor I’m taking into account is minimal risk, so again, anything with actual inventory in my possession is out, as is real estate.
A key contextual clue as to why I’m currently motivated to worry less about specifically what I do next, and focus more on doing anything, is that it is becoming painfully obvious to me that the sooner I am able to replace at least half my previous income with passive income, I will be a much, much happier man.
Given that monetizing Tumblr is something at least within my periphery, and that [as described in the referenced post] it has the potential to be highly passive (nothing is truly 100% passive), it seems like I should see if I can come up with a niche and then just plow forward from there. Again, making this decision appears to be the real wildcard in the process, and I get the feeling that there is a fair amount of room for error for all the other tasks without killing your chances of getting a decent return on your effort.
Now remember, my initial impression was that I would need to look outside my particular interest set to find a good niche market. This sounds like we have a grand opportunity to perform sort of an experiment here…
I set forth an arbitrary goal of making it this method work in a niche for which I have ZERO passion–i.e., make it an objective, logical, and by-the-numbers pursuit. This is particularly relevant because I tend to have interests and tastes outside the normal distribution of the general population. And also emotions aren’t the best guide when it comes to business, so it’s best to leave them at the door.
The third and final motivator for this approach that I will note here is probably the most important: repeatability and reducing overhead. If I can do it for any given niche, then why not try other niches, especially since I’ve already gone through the motions and it will be easier and easier each time? Also, I could offer my services to my IRL friends and family, helping them convey their passions into passive revenue. In that case we could both enjoy a cut of the income in an equitable manner. Spread the gospel, right?
Anyways, the main point is to try to do it such that I’m not constrained by my particular passions.
…
Later this evening I found myself in the shower at the gym, thinking about my blog and other non-traditional work efforts. I’ve noticed this is a trend for some reason. I’m almost always thinking about what to write next and how I’m going to write whilst scrubbing away in ye ol’ Planet Fitness locker room. Today was no different.
Now, not too long ago I remember coming across an example of someone starting their own small business in the pet supply market.9I believe it was a book I had checked out from the library, 100 Side Hustles, but I can’t be quite sure at this point.. I recall seeing the value of said market and having my jaw hit the floor. People spend an INSANE amount on their pets.
That little speck of inspiration apparently had been forming into a beautiful pearl in my head, because “pets” kept popping up in my mind as I thought about the Tumblr niche problem. Now that I think about, pets seem like a solid bet because huge swaths of the population love the shaggy l’il rascals–especially kids. The Boss Lady would be particularly pleased if I chose such a family-friendly and universally-embraced topic, no doubt.
But, just one problem…pets by themselves seemed to be a little too bougie for me to just run with it.
My mind naturally wandered into the realm of the absurd, and it was there when I knew I found my diamond in the rough…
Well, I already felt like I was in AbsurdLandia, given that my too main candidates were “pets’ and “luxury”, and…wait just a hot minute! Holy schnitzels, of course, that’s it–double down on the absurd factor!
What could be more ridiculous than spending excessive money on yourself? SPENDING IT ON YOUR ----- PET!
And, tada! The Prissy Pet Project officially has it’s name!
It turns out that that little speck that formed into a pearl was wearing a pearl necklace itself! Now that’s getting meta for ya. God, I love me some absurd images…
Figure 3. Meanwhile, in my mind’s eye…
6 November 2019 (Wednesday)
Well, now its time for the rubber to meet the road. Let’s do this! Of course the first order of business is this–a blog post about it kicking things off, that way I get double the mileage for my efforts. I mean, if you’re not here to hear about all my misadventures, then why are you here?
Okay, so where was I in the article. Let me get back to that.
Skimming over the article, let’s pick out the major action items.:
Set up Tumblr with relevant URL
Populate blog with niche-related pictures (unsure of how many I need here)
Acquire ~50 followers via whatever means (manually following other blogs, or using bots, etc).
Set up automated posts (still unsure of where I’m supposed to get such copious amounts of content from)
Set up Amazon Associates account
Setup online store (BlueHost website hosting, WordPress, WooCommerce, etc)
Edit all Tumblr posts to include link to store.
Profit.
Now that we have a brand in mind, the next step is getting a Tumblr blog name with a related URL. But first, is “Prissy Pets” already taken?
Wait, is there already somebody profiting handsomely from this exact idea? But clicking on the Amazon link only needs to nothingness:
So it is currently unclear whether or not I could actually have an Amazon store with that name…
Meanwhile, over on Tumblr itself “Prissy pets” returned exactly one result. The term “luxury pets” has more results, but does make me question whether this is actually a good choice.
I’m going to go ahead and move forward with the “Prissy Pets” concept, but I’m willing to openly change course if it doesn’t generate much income and/or content is hard to come by.
Anyways, I’ve signed up to Tumblr with username “prissypetproject” because, hey, why burn more creative brain cells on this? In the setup process, Tumblr will ask “what you’re into,” and “Pets” was option so I obviously selected it.
However, “Luxury” was not an option, so…Home & Lifestyle? Fashion? I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what a good algorithmic proxy for luxury would be. I almost went with Home & Lifestyle, but it turns out that when you click on each category, their sub-categories are revealed, and looking over these I realized that clearly Tumblr and I were not using those terms in the same manner.
I decided to throw in “Handmades” because, hey who doesn’t like to knit fancy-ass sweaters for their pooch? And also because, jeez, I’m not finding anything that would appear to be the mystical portal to Luxury Tumblr.
In the end, I was quite unsure of how to the get “luxury” included…and I ended up with the following: Pets, Handmade, Crochet, Nature, Wildlife.
I’m starting to wonder if fancy pets was such a good niche to settle on after all…
Welp, I’ve ran out of time for this project for the day and several days to come, so will have to figure out a better way to refine later.
I guess that is all for now…stay tuned to find out how exactly I fumble my way through all this!
Not that I would have seriously considered it, its just that given that it is indubitably a highly profitable for those who choose that path, one would expect it to at least get a shout out…
Here’s an interesting thought experiment for you: when you shed this mortal coil and pass on to whatever you hope is next, what do you want those whom you have left behind to write on your tombstone?
Now, the even more important question: what are you doing right now to earn those words of immortalization?
It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but yes, I have put some thought into this matter. After a decent amount of contemplation about what seems to drive me the most, I believe I have an answer that I can solidly stand behind.
When I die, I want a simple one-word epitaph inscribed on my headstone:
“Clever.”
I imagine that conversation with my local undertaker will go something like this:
Well, that at least answers the first part of the experiment.
Earning an undisputed reputation for being “clever” is a whole ‘nother ball of wax, though, you see.
I’ve had my moments of inspiration here and there–some of which I may or may not have been legally advised to never speak openly about–but nonetheless it’s not like I’ve totally fallen down in my efforts to prove to the world that am indeed a clever boy.
However, becoming a family man (or woman) tends to change one’s perspective on what metric really is a good measure of what you’ve done with your life.
Let’s visit our good friend and esteemed psychologist, Abraham Maslow, and his seminal legacy, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs (see Figure 2).
If you’re not familiar with this concept, basically it states that one’s lower level needs have to be met before a person can effectively focus on higher level needs.
I mean, have you ever tried to thinking about sex when you have debilitating stomach cramps accompanied by a proportional volume of diarrhea? Not that it’s ever happened to me, per se, but you can easily imagine how in this case Love/Belonging needs pretty much don’t exist when you have such, er, “pressing” Physiological needs.2Interestingly ‘sex’ is considered a base-level need. I could see how this might be true, while as the same time I would argue that it could also very well be placed in the “Esteem” category. In reality, nothing says that it can’t be part of each of those levels. Just a thought…
Anyways, you may be wondering “What in the high hell does this have to do with being a clever family man?”
Fair enough question. Let me go ahead and try to tackle that.
Seeing as how “creativity” and “problem-solving” belong in the top-tier of Self-Actualization, I’m pretty confident this where “being clever AF” would land as well.
But no matter how many wheels I re-invent,3This is such a recurring problem for me that on several occasions. I’ve been very close to printing business cards proclaiming “Re-inventor of the wheel” as my profession. guess what? If it doesn’t put food on the table for my kids, a roof over my wife’s head, and a handgun in the Bible case of my beloved mother, than what in hot Hades have I been good for?
Sure, I can be clever all day long and pat myself on the back. I’ll admit that, like good cocaine, it sure does give me a rush.
But, if my kids are hungry and destitute4Don’t worry, they’re not, thanks to a highly competent sugar momma. because of my pursuit of “clever”, then I might as well admit that I have just as much of an addiction as a cokehead and check myself into rehab. Just another self-centered prick hurting the ones they love…
Welp.
I gotta say that I really do need to stop blogging after 11 pm. That, um…that’s not exactly where I expected to end up with that train of thought. But hey, close enough, right?
The point of the story is this: if I’m such a smarty-pants, then riddle me this. Why do I work so darn hard for so little of the monies? I mean come on, I got mouths to feed and 529 Plans to fund, yo!
And honestly, I don’t have an easy answer for you on that one. But fear not! You shall not be left so unfulfilled!
The answer I have for you is instead hopefully much more interesting than a pithy one-liner: I have for you an invitation.
Come along with me, as explore the Wonderful World of Working Wisely!5In truth, I don’t know if that’s an actual thing or not, but that pretty much captures what I’m up to.
One need not work hard so much as they need to work smart, amiright? And to that end, I will be pursuing a variety of passive income streams, side hustles, investments, and other such not-quite-shady shenanigans…and of course sharing those adventures here in full, glorious detail.
As always, I hope that you find these tales entertaining, but more importantly, maybe my experience will inspire others to find their own creative paths to financial security and beyond…to financial love/belonging! To financial esteem! And to financial self-actualization! Okay, okay, I’ll lay off the Maslow humor for now…
But seriously though, while money isn’t everything, the lack thereof sure the hell causes a lot of anguish and strife.6I’m uncertain if that is original, but I doubt I came up with it myself. If I can leave this world with a little bit less of those things, then I maybe all my cleverness won’t have been in vain.
I suppose in that case I better revise what I want on my tombstone:
There. That’s better. My original answer totally misrepresented me…didn’t have nearly enough words.
Though…hmmm…do you suppose I’ll be able to find a cemetery that will allow one grave to have two headstones? I always hoped to be some sort of trailblazer, but this is not quite how I imagined it…
Anyways, Dear Reader (and Boss Lady), jeez Loiuise do I digress! Stay tuned for upcoming adventures…7Don’t worry though, I’m still going to overload you with all the many asinine anecdotes from my mildly amusing life! Let’s make some fat coin together, yo!
Interestingly ‘sex’ is considered a base-level need. I could see how this might be true, while as the same time I would argue that it could also very well be placed in the “Esteem” category. In reality, nothing says that it can’t be part of each of those levels. Just a thought…
This is such a recurring problem for me that on several occasions. I’ve been very close to printing business cards proclaiming “Re-inventor of the wheel” as my profession.
The latest word on the street