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Your life becomes a constant progress of trying to sleep at night and work during the day — at least until you realize the utter impossibility of that endeavor, until you surrender to the fact that you’ll wake with full intention at 11 a.m. and instead spend four hours gazing at social media for some purpose you’ll justify to yourself somehow.
During the three years that I worked a ‘9-to-5’ (though, in reality, it was more of a ’10-to-whenever-the-fuck-I-say, you-need-this-money- so-I’m-going-to-take-advantage-of-you, need-you-to-come-in-Saturdays-too, sorry-sucker’), I dated a freelancer. A few of them, actually.
“Here’s why I’m better than all your other candidates, make no mistake,” you write in your cover letter. “I’m highly relatable, am a great team player, and have a passion for sales and marketing. I’m the man for the job, sir.” This is where you actually have to leave the laptop, go to the kitchen sink and retch.