Three and a half more weeks of Hell. Well, school. Faking my way through 3 ish years of pretending to want to be a teacher has been tasking on my sanity, my wallet, and my acting abilities. In three weeks freedom will ring and I’ll Jullie-Andrews-It through the Blue Ridge Mountains.
In the mean time, the idea of going to part-time waitress to full-time waitress makes me dry heave. I don’t think I can sacrifice my humanity for the money. Enter: my dad. He comes to my house, filled with all of my hand made Pinterest decor, and suggests I do this for money (imagine a sweep of Mufasa’s paw telling Simba about everything-the-light-touches).
I laugh it off, “I don’t care about making money from it. I can sit on my floor for hours and hours working on something and don’t realize how much time has passed, I just love it!”
Wise Colombian Elder (or Dad), “If you can make a living doing something that you love, where you don’t realize time passes, then you’d have the job/career that everyone wishes for.”
I can always count on Dad to get me with those nuggets of simple wisdom.
That’s the idea. Buying, redoing, and making furniture, decor, art, ect. to hopefully sell. A friend of mine is trying her damnedest to get me to get an Instagram to post pictures of my stuff and attach a link to an Etsy site. I’m very seriously considering ignoring my disdain for Instagram and giving this a shot.
A “job” where I can go anywhere and still have my craft? I kind of like it.