I’m sitting here, expressively feeling I don’t wanna. I want to lie on the floor, kick with my feet, hit fit my arms, wail like a child I don’t wanna.

I don’t want to study anymore. I don’t want to write papers with team mates, feeling my absence is vital and harsh feelings and nasty words are shot my way, only because I dared to be sick. I hate that I can never be sick, because I can never miss a day of school. I can never miss the amount of labour I have to put in. I hate that my weekends are never my days off.

I don’t want to feel poor any more. And I don’t want to worry about the day I graduate. I don’t want to have anxieties about finding a new apartment and then not getting approved because I’m a student. I don’t want to have to think, all the time. Constantly. I don’t wanna.

I realize that I will miss my late mornings when I’m done. I will miss the early days to go home, but guess what self. You never really get to go home, you are never really off. You constantly have to study and if you don’t you constantly have to worry if you did enough.

I hate the fact that if I stay home, I miss vital information for my future studies and there is no way I can get that information through other sources. Sure I can ask people in my class but guess what, they either hold back or they didn’t listen attentively enough. Unless the professor basically just said hi and bye.

I want to be free. I feel trapped.

Work was killing me. I could literally feel it draining all the life out of me. Standing there smiling at all the costumers, who were acting like idiots, all the while the boss was fucking me up by not being any support, or at all reachable.

I could take it when I was only working weekends. Sure I was tired working every weekend and then going to school on weekdays but the exhaustion never kept me from being polite to customers while taking their shit, and it never really made me resent my boss. It all grew gradually from June until just the other day, when I quit.

I just can’t take it any more, feeling like I get screwed from all sides. So I quit to get some summer vacation instead, and it’s like the heaviest weight was lifted from my shoulders, the biggest sigh could escape my mouth and I could finally sleep at nights.

I’m free and I feel like I escaped a horrible punishment. It’s glorious not to be back there working my ass off for someone who never sees or acknowledges it. Working like a maniac for people who never appreciate it. Busting my ass off only to get bitched at. I don’t need it and I left it behind. Freedom!

Something that amazes me is that there are several people sitting out there on blogs telling eveyrone that fpr so and so much money, they will teach how to write. How not to be boring and how to make people pilgrimage towards your blog, so that you in one way or another can make some hard earned (or not so hard earned?) money off of them.

Usually, reading those blogs, for the first time I’m entruiged. But after a while they are the ones that just build up in my feader never getting read. Because it’s the same thing over and over again on each and every last one of them. Write in paragraphs, make sure you have some sort of heading or people wont stay focused and interested enough to read, keep the writing moderately short.

All I hear is bla bla bla.

Now I can agree that a picture helps you take the post in and want to read the words. A picture saying over a thousand words itself, but posting a picture of a hand holding a pen or something generic of the sort is just agravating. And honestly telling me that they think we readers are so stupid, uneducated, unfocused that we can’t read their post without visual help. See monkey, spell M-O-N-K-E-Y. Picture books for adults.

If you’re in the blogging business to make money I will tell you right away, your chances of making a living out of it is approximetly the same as you making a living out of being an actor. It’s slim. Don’t do something for the money. Do it, because you love it.

The only one making money out of that E-book you just bought, is the author himself.