We all dream of it, don’t we? Whether you’re sitting at a desk, in a classroom, out laying bricks, installing refrigerators, selling clothes, knocking on doors, driving people around… Whatever we’re getting paid for; we all dream of getting up, leaving it all behind, and never looking back.

We dream of days with no commitments, sleeping in, lazing around. Walking to the cafes nearby, having the time to read a newspaper, magazine, the current novel you’re trying to finish faster than your usual 3-months (because you never have the time).

We want time.

But you know what the real problem is? You know I’m gonna say it, I know I’m gonna say it, you hate to hear it, I hate to hear it, we aaalllllll hate to hear it: you’re just not using your time to your advantage.

Heck, I know people who work themselves to the bone. And I find they’re the ones who complain the least about having time to themselves the most. Cause they get it. But then there’s people like me. I was working a job that, majority of the time, was 6 days a week, 10 hours a day (give or take), on-the-fucking-go. And for a while I was absolutely adoring the shit out of it. Then I got stressed. And then the stress got stressed. So naturally I blamed the job for not being able to do the things I wanted to do.

But did I not still have all the other time in the world to do what I wanted?

I didn’t have to get up only 15 minutes before my train, chuck on my makeup, not have to do hair because I shaved it off lol, wear whatever I could find on my bed, and drink 7/11 coffee because a) it’s $1, and b) it’s $1.

But I did.

And I still complained.

Take today as an example: Funemployment, a short story, by me (obviously)

I awoke at an acceptable time. I photographed the sunrise. I admired the world, and I thought of stories of all the people flying in the airplanes above me. Worlds, galaxies, different from my own.

I slept.

I awoke at a /sort-of/ acceptable time. I made a cup of coffee. I ate chocolate for breakfast. (Atrocious diet for another time). Read the rest of The Younger Man, by Zoe Foster Blake. Changed clothes, washed face, brushed teeth, and waited. For the fridge man. Delivering our fridge.
Tried to make small-talk with fridge-delivery-dude, failed. Decided to stand awkwardly around. He left. Fridge is smol.
I put off-milk in the fridge, just to have something in there.
I started to read a new novel. It cost me $2.99. It was shockingly written, almost as much as my blog posts. I couldn’t stop reading it, like you guys reading my blog posts.
I wrote some words in my own novel. I ate peanut butter toast and drank tea.

I slept.

I awoke at an unacceptable time.
I drank more coffee. Ate more toast. Read more words.

And then I ate coco pops.

Mind you, this was all made with the off-milk.
What can I say? It only cost 24cents and I’m funemployed.

I drank more tea.
Posted on instragram.
Scrolled through tumblr.
Tagged people in memes on Facebook.

I showered.
Drank more tea.
Felt sick, probably because off-milk.

Not once did I take advantage of my time (aside from maybe when I wrote things in my novel). Not once did I explore Sydney, where I’m lucky enough to call home – go do groceries, instead deciding to stick to steady diet of toast and tea – nor did I even think to walk outside.

But it’s time to myself, and that’s what I’m happiest with.
Time to yourself doesn’t have to mean funemployment, unemployment, or leaving your workplace at all. It just means realising, acknowledging, that you are feeling lost/unhappy/stressed-on-top-of-stressed and taking some time – before work, after work, during (probably not during) work. Take a smol holiday.

A smoliday.

And probably don’t drink off-milk.

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