u/homew0rld

How would you describe the way you think about people and being social?

I figure that people who have the easiest time with people have a great positive mindset concerning themselves and others.

What is the way to handle this? Do I get angry and insult back? Do I stay quiet and try to ignore what was said?

I don't want to come across as a coward, but I also don't want to come across as someone who can't control his emotions. Neither seems right, so there must be a balanced way.

And if so how do I achieve this? I like that I'm a non-judgemental person, and I'm sure people appreciate that at least to some extent, but I imagine I might come across as boring. I think because I've been afraid to be judgemental I don't naturally have strong opinions on things. On the other hand I find strongly opinionated people to be annoying at times. I'm sure there's a good balance I could find.

Is it realistic to go from zero experience to making 100k a year as a copywriter in 5-7 years? Do you think copywriting will be a viable job in the future considering AI? I would also be happy with 50k a year if that's more realistic. Any tips on how to pursue this career would be appreciated.

I feel like I'm taking everything too seriously. Im taking myself too seriously. I'm trying to become better and more perfect in ways. I'm trying to make up for the past. There are people in this world that fully accept themselves and just live a simple life. I feel like I'm living in a society that wants so much more from me which I'm badly failing at in an embarrassing way. I don't know if it will ever be enough, though.

There is some nuance to the situation. I think for me I definitely need to get better because I'm not as independent as I should be. I'm failing at basic adult stuff. That can't be good. I feel like if I just was able to somehow get a decent job I'd be set and content. Im a frugal person who doesn't really want many things so Im not looking to hustle my way to be a millionaire or anything like that.

Maybe im going about things the wrong way.

I was thinking about how we can't escape relationship. Even if we're isolated, the need to belong is strongly encoded in us.

If I we're not being perceived by others, why would I need to grow? I would 100% accept myself and be as however I am. Where would it come from, internally, a need to be better? Other than things like growing for survival. It's a fact that we all live in relationship with one another. Is this even a bad thing?

I think about the dark side of belonging too much. Conformity. Groupthink. I loathe belonging yet I need it. However, unconciously I might not be above comformity or groupthink when I think about it. I know that I want to be wanted by certiain kinds of people and that does try to inform my opinions, though I'm usually aware enough to fight back.

However, I am trying to grow for what I tell myself is for myself. I'm trying to be a more thoughtful person when it comes to life, because I believe that will enrich my life. So maybe I was wrong here, maybe I'm not. I could be trying to become a more thoughtful person to seem smarter and have some kind of value to people I've felt I've lacked. Both could be true.

I screw the drive shaft into place and wipe sweat off my forehead, leaving a smear of grease. Amber already had washed her hands twice.

"Pass me the wrench," Amber says. She doesn't look up at me.

"Here," I say and pass her the wrench noticing the lack of grime under her finger nails.

​

Amber tightens a bracket, checks the alignment, and does another quarter turn. I go rummage through my bin of random parts looking for a screw.

"Found one!," I say. Amber doesn't look up. She continues tightening another bracket. I roll the screw between my fingers.

"What kind of weapon are we installing? I was thinking a pneumatic ram"

"No," She says. "The center of gravity is off." "Then what are we-"

"A spinner. That was always the plan, Victor. You need to pay attention."

"A spinner isn't going to handle this motor" For the first time, she looks up at me.

"That can't be right."

"Check the schematics." She pulls out the schematics and flips through them.

"Crap"

"I told you." Amber stares at me for approximately three seconds and washes her hands again. That's the fourth time today. "You know what? It's lunch time," I say.

​

Outside, the air is brisk. I sit on the curb and pull out my lunch box. A turkey club sandwich. I eat it slow and make sure I really taste the tomatoes. Amber sits on the bench behind me. I turn around and see she has oatmeal. A thick and beige gloop of sustenance is the kind of thing Amber would find satisfactory.

​

I speak with my mouth full of turkey.

"You know, mom use to make the best turkey sandwiches. This one is only pretty good." Amber quickly nods, looking around me, but not quite at me. She stirs her oatmeal.

"I don't want to talk about mom."

"That's fine." I pause for a moment.

"Do you want to talk at all?"

"No."

​

​

​

A short scene from a short story I probably won't continue writing...

​

​

I screw the drive shaft into place and wipe sweat off my forehead, leaving a smear of grease. Amber already had washed her hands twice.

"Pass me the wrench," Amber says. She doesn't look up at me.

"Here," I say and pass her the wrench noticing the lack of grime under her finger nails.

​

Amber tightens a bracket, checks the alignment, and does another quarter turn. I go rummage through my bin of random parts looking for a screw.

"Found one!," I say. Amber doesn't look up. She continues tightening another bracket. I roll the screw between my fingers.

"What kind of weapon are we installing? I was thinking a pneumatic ram"

"No," She says. "The center of gravity is off." "Then what are we-"

"A spinner. That was always the plan, Victor. You need to pay attention."

"A spinner isn't going to handle this motor" For the first time, she looks up at me.

"That can't be right."

"Check the schematics." She pulls out the schematics and flips through them.

"Crap"

"I told you." Amber stares at me for approximately three seconds and washes her hands again. That's the fourth time today. "You know what? It's lunch time," I say.

​

Outside, the air is brisk. I sit on the curb and pull out my lunch box. A turkey club sandwich. I eat it slow and make sure I really taste the tomatoes. Amber sits on the bench behind me. I turn around and see she has oatmeal. A thick and beige gloop of sustenance is the kind of thing Amber would find satisfactory.

​

I speak with my mouth full of turkey.

"You know, mom use to make the best turkey sandwiches. This one is only pretty good." Amber quickly nods, looking around me, but not quite at me. She stirs her oatmeal.

"I don't want to talk about mom."

"That's fine." I pause for a moment.

"Do you want to talk at all?"

"No."

​

​

​

Only when I hold down on a file or note to bring up the interface to create a new file or note. I can do it once then it freezes and I have to close the app to fix it. I already tried reinstalling. Any fix to this?

Cowboy Johnson's lighter has yet to know the memory of heat. His journal, cracked and worn, has one word written. Forgive. He lights the journal and stares at the word as if it has taken a new shape until the flame comes biting at his fingers. He tosses it into the fireplace. It curls and blackens.

Karl sits in his rocker, the rough wood prickling his bare arms. The sun is setting red and pale as old bone. The scent of pine wafts across the porch and then he remembers how the glass of his Ford Ranger turned into stars and the stars a witness. The pine tree shaking as if to say no more.

Cowboy puts on his lucky boot. A single leather boot paired with an ordinary boot. The other lucky boot too mangled by the wreck to ever be worn again.

Karl stands up from his chair, his left leg a phantom limb and a column of steel. He picks up the photograph with its edges smooth and worn and stares at it for a while, his fingers tracing the border. He places it back down once he has his fill of how things used to be. The whiskey remains untouched.

The telephone rings. Karl knows who it is already and picks it up anyway.

"I know. I know you want me better than dead." Karl says.

"I want you worse than alive. There's a difference", Cowboy says.

"I'll be waiting here." Karl says, but Cowboy already hung up.

The steel wheels screech to a halt. Cowboy steps on to the train to Albuquerque. Where the heat is too dry for a man made of kindling.

He sits across from a man with his head in his wrinkled hands. The leather seats roughened as salt licks. Cowboy looks at him for a while before looking at his own hands. Rough as hell, untouchable as heaven.

"Are you doing okay, sir", Cowboy asks.

"My father's in the hospital. I know he's old. He's 96, but I still can't imagine the man he is as sick as he is. I'm not ready"

Cowboy looks at his boot and back at the man.

"We're never ready."

Karl attempts to light a cigarette, but the lighter is dead as dead. Searching around his drawers, the unlit cigarette dangling from his dry lips, Karl finds his .38 special.

"I don't deserve to, but if I have to I have to"

Cowboy steps off the train and grinds out a cigarette with his boot.

"It's too hot for smoking", Cowboy tells a passerby. Sweat beads trail down his forehead as he waves down a cab.

Karl puts on some music. The needle dropping on the record with an ever so light touch. Wattson and Wattson. Old school country. Karl would attempt to dance alone in his house, but his leg wouldn't forgive him.

There's a knock at the door, and the floor boards underneath rattle like they're thunderstruck. Karl immediately stops the music, pulls out his .38 and leans his body against the door.

"Is that you, Cowboy?"

"It is"

"Now I know I don't deserve to, but I will shoot you through this door. Are you armed?"

"I am, but I'm not holdin'. And that's not a small thing."

Karl eases open the door and see's Cowboy telling the truth, but keeps his gun trained on him anyway. Shaking like stirred up muddy waters.

"Put that thing away, Karl."

"You want me worse than alive. Your words"

"I know what I've been sayin'. I've been thinking a lot too."

"Oh yeah?" Karl lowers his .38 and uses it to gesture. "Well come inside, sit down and don't drink all my whiskey."

Inside is strewn papers and clothes and empty cans of non-alcholic beer like a small but furious storm had made its way through on the way to bigger things.

"Non-alcholic beer? You doing okay? Where's that whiskey?"

"On the table over there"

Cowboy picks up the whiskey. A clear light radiating through the brown.

"Yeah, I'm just going to need a touch of this if we're going to talk."

Cowboy notices the photograph next to the whiskey. Its edges worn through years of touch.

"You're still holdin' on to him aren't you?"

"I'm not holding on to him. More like he's holding on to me."

"Hmm. How's the leg?"

"Heavy as hell, but I can manage alright."

The two sit down at the table across from each other. Only dust motes between them and the light that reveals them.

"Why don't you have a shot of whiskey with me", Cowboy says.

"I can't."

"Why do you even have a bottle if you've gone straight?"

"It's the last thing your father gave me."

Cowboy sets the whiskey bottle in the center of them. "Nevermind."

A breeze from an open window brushes against Cowboy's hair. He looks at the whiskey bottle, nods his head slowly and tightens the cap. Karl folds his hands together almost in prayer but not quite.

Cowboy Johnson's lighter has yet to know the memory of heat. His journal, cracked and worn, has one word written. Forgive. He lights the journal and stares at the word as if it has taken a new shape until the flame comes biting at his fingers. He tosses it into the fireplace. It curls and blackens.

Karl sits in his rocker, the rough wood prickling his bare arms. The sun is setting red and pale as old bone. The scent of pine wafts across the porch and then he remembers how the glass of his Ford Ranger turned into stars and the stars a witness. The pine tree shaking as if to say no more.

Cowboy puts on his lucky boot. A single leather boot paired with an ordinary boot. The other lucky boot too mangled by the wreck to ever be worn again.

Karl stands up from his chair, his left leg a phantom limb and a column of steel. He picks up the photograph with its edges smooth and worn and stares at it for a while, his fingers tracing the border. He places it back down once he has his fill of how things used to be. The whiskey remains untouched.

The telephone rings. Karl knows who it is already and picks it up anyway.

"I know. I know you want me better than dead." Karl says.

"I want you worse than alive. There's a difference", Cowboy says.

"I'll be waiting here." Karl says, but Cowboy already hung up.

The steel wheels screech to a halt. Cowboy steps on to the train to Albuquerque. Where the heat is too dry for a man made of kindling.

He sits across from a man with his head in his wrinkled hands. The leather seats roughened as salt licks. Cowboy looks at him for a while before looking at his own hands. Rough as hell, untouchable as heaven.

"Are you doing okay, sir", Cowboy asks.

"My father's in the hospital. I know he's old. He's 96, but I still can't imagine the man he is as sick as he is. I'm not ready"

Cowboy looks at his boot and back at the man.

"We're never ready."

Karl attempts to light a cigarette, but the lighter is dead as dead. Searching around his drawers, the unlit cigarette dangling from his dry lips, Karl finds his .38 special.

"I don't deserve to, but if I have to I have to"

Cowboy steps off the train and grinds out a cigarette with his boot.

"It's too hot for smoking", Cowboy tells a passerby. Sweat beads trail down his forehead as he waves down a cab.

Karl puts on some music. The needle dropping on the record with an ever so light touch. Wattson and Wattson. Old school country. Karl would attempt to dance alone in his house, but his leg wouldn't forgive him.

There's a knock at the door, and the floor boards underneath rattle like they're thunderstruck. Karl immediately stops the music, pulls out his .38 and leans his body against the door.

"Is that you, Cowboy?"

"It is"

"Now I know I don't deserve to, but I will shoot you through this door. Are you armed?"

"I am, but I'm not holdin'. And that's not a small thing."

Karl eases open the door and see's Cowboy telling the truth, but keeps his gun trained on him anyway. Shaking like stirred up muddy waters.

"Put that thing away, Karl."

"You want me worse than alive. Your words"

"I know what I've been sayin'. I've been thinking a lot too."

"Oh yeah?" Karl lowers his .38 and uses it to gesture. "Well come inside, sit down and don't drink all my whiskey."

Inside is strewn papers and clothes and empty cans of non-alcholic beer like a small but furious storm had made its way through on the way to bigger things.

"Non-alcholic beer? You doing okay? Where's that whiskey?"

"On the table over there"

Cowboy picks up the whiskey. A clear light radiating through the brown.

"Yeah, I'm just going to need a touch of this if we're going to talk."

Cowboy notices the photograph next to the whiskey. Its edges worn through years of touch.

"You're still holdin' on to him aren't you?"

"I'm not holding on to him. More like he's holding on to me."

"Hmm. How's the leg?"

"Heavy as hell, but I can manage alright."

The two sit down at the table across from each other. Only dust motes between them and the light that reveals them.

"Why don't you have a shot of whiskey with me", Cowboy says.

"I can't."

"Why do you even have a bottle if you've gone straight?"

"It's the last thing your father gave me."

Cowboy sets the whiskey bottle in the center of them. "Nevermind."

A breeze from an open window brushes against Cowboy's hair. He looks at the whiskey bottle, nods his head slowly and tightens the cap. Karl folds his hands together almost in prayer but not quite.

I use to think meaning and purpose was constructed out of nothing. I now believe that purpose is discovered. Discovering your purpose is about peeling back the layers of yourself until it reveals something fundementally true.

For me, a purpose I discovered is a kind of purpose that can and should apply to everyone. It's to slow down, pay attention, and participate. To look at the world, understand it as deeply as I can, and do something about it. On another level for me it means making art, but fundamentally that's about slowing down, paying attention, and participation.

I decided to actually feel my grief in my body. My grief is tied to my ADHD and how I was treated as a child. I have a lot of shame around reading, education and my intelligence in general. I noticed resistence with my reading recently, and recogized it as protection against shame. After that I had the idea to feel my grief as this was something I read about recently that would be theraupetic. And it was.

It was like recognizing that I had pain and grief and I was human for the first time. I had pain just like everyone else. So in doing so I opened my heart a little bit more and feel more connected to people and the world.

I figure I have the ability to deeply read 10-12 non-fiction books in a years time. That's mainly because I mostly read fiction. I'm intersted in history, philosophy, political science, sociology and psychology. I'm mainly intersted in big broad knowledge, right now. I'd rather read a textbook on world history than a history book on WWI. Pretend I know nothing and you're building a starter-kit library of essential works. I'm curious with what you come up with.

I had a realization tonight. I've been living in a void, observing humanity from a detached perspective. I've been treating knowledge as a luxary and way to gain approval.

Stepping out of the void I realize Im part of humanity and Im living in a system. This shit actually matters and I guess I actually matter. Knowledge is power. A power tool to survive and thrive in society.

I've been doing some self-education and I initially was doing this reflect because I realized I wasn't retaining what I was learning as well as I could because I wasn't relating it to my life and how it can solve problems. Then boom I feel like I woke up from my sleep. I've been living on autopilot to some degree.

The exciting part about learning is you never know how its going to change you.