Bloganuary #1: ADHD and the Mythical Art of Follow-Through

I guess there’s a challenge to blog once a day, every day for all of January, with these fun little prompts to guide you. I’m great at doing challenges (looking at you, 75 Hard), so I thought I’d attempt this one. Just don’t expect this to be very consistent.

What are your biggest challenges?

I think my biggest challenge is exactly why I need a challenge like this one to kick my ass — I have exactly zero follow-through. Like, none. I’m great at getting excited about things yet terrible at seeing them through. You can see it all throughout this blog. I had so many neat ideas, so many it would be pointless to link to all of them.

And maybe like two of them came to fruition.

I write a lot about my ADHD. It’s kind of a big deal for me. It’s practically my entire personality. I know there’s some controversy about saying “she is ADHD” versus “she has ADHD” but the truth is, I freakin’ am ADHD. I’m three ADHD diagnoses in a trench coat cleverly disguised as a fully functioning adult.

It’s always been a part of me, ever since I was a hyperactive child spinning around in circles in the back of the classroom or pacing back and forth during dinner as I chewed my food. As a child, most people found that stuff endearing, and I got good grades and didn’t like, go around punching other kids, so nobody cared. But as I got older, it definitely got a lot harder to cope with. Suddenly, I found myself failing my courses. My first marriage crashed and burned. All of my stories remained unwritten and unpublished. I couldn’t commit to anything because I’d get bored and move on to whatever was sparkly and interesting to me at the time. Which is not a productive trait to have as an adult.

I don’t know if all my fellow ADHDers struggle with follow-through, but I know for me, it’s one of the defining features. I can’t focus my attention on something for an extended period of time, whether it’s a job or a relationship or my education or any creative endeavor. As soon as it becomes boring to me, I start looking for something else, and that becomes my new fixation until the next shiny object comes along. It’s an ugly cycle that leads nowhere.

It has gotten better. My medication helps a lot with motivation and I’ve learned skills for making sure I stay on task, like keeping a planner on my phone. But it’s still a challenge for me to accomplish big, long-term goals. That’s why the Dear Cadence series was such a huge deal for me. It was the first series I’ve ever actually finished, and the high I got from writing those last few sentences of the final chapter was one I’ll never forget. I want to chase that high again, but it’s the little hits of dopamine I get from having a brand new idea or opportunity that distract me.

I think in 2024, I’ll work on this. Maybe I’ll actually finish the Venona series (if I don’t scrap it and rewrite it altogether). Maybe this is the year I learn more about recording music and set up my studio finally. Maybe I’ll start my music therapy practice and not back down when things inevitably get tough. Maybe I’ll take up oil painting again and not give up when my subjects look like potatoes.

I have a feeling this will be the year I finally tame this part of myself. Here goes nothing.

It’s the Final Countdown! (Doodoo Doo Doooooo)

My last post was very cynical, and perhaps rightfully so. The world is on fire, after all. Literally, if you consider the fact that it’s almost January and it has yet to truly snow in my dear old home of Michigan, a land renowned for its wintery scenery. We had a white Christmas, though!

Outside of global catastrophes like climate change, though, life’s been pretty good, if hectic. This is my final week in Michigan before my big move to Indiana, which still doesn’t feel entirely real. The wife and I have been scrambling trying to get things in order before we leave. We bought my car, for one, which feels nice. I own a car. And like, not a shitty one. It feels good, man.

I don’t know if I’m ready to live so far from everyone and everything I know. The closest I came to anything of this caliber was my failed move to Florida after my life in Michigan imploded following the implosion of my old band and my failure to procure a big girl job with my newly minted journalism degree (which is about as useful to me as an expired car wash coupon). I moved back after a miserable month of flying roaches, nonstop tropical rainstorms, and a sad existence as a Sonic carhop.

Roller skating carhop in the 1950s. | Vintage photos, Vintage ... — Which would have been worth it if I got to wear a cute lil outfit for it.

But I have a good feeling about this move. The internship at Mainstay Music Therapy will be a rewarding one I feel, and one that will likely prepare me for my work in the field. I worked my ass off to procure this internship, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make the best of it. I’ve learned most of the songs off the repertoire list, I’ve refreshed my memory on the basics of music therapy, and now all that’s left for me to do is jump in and get my feet wet in the real world.

We’ll be staying at a quaint AirBNB for the extent of the internship, an upstairs apartment inside a fanciful green historic home in downtown Fort Wayne, and I’m pretty excited to make this little place a home for the next six months.

If I’m gonna leave my comfort zone, I’m gonna do it in style.

I’ve also been scoping out the local hotspots on Instagram. There’s a coffee shop inside a conservatory, a few different local stores that look promising, and even a gay bar. That’s right — apparently Fort Wayne has a surprisingly robust lesbian scene. Will this be the arc where my wife finally finds another partner? I hope so — this polyamory thing feels very unbalanced with me having multiple partners and my wife having no one aside from me. Which is a damn shame, as she’s absolutely adorable and deserves an entire harem of cute girls by her side.

My biggest hope for this new chapter is for me to figure out what I’m doing with the rest of my life. The dream is to open my own private practice akin to Mainstay in the Detroit area. I know it’ll take a lot of work, and I’m determined to make it happen. “Determined” — that’s the word I wrote as my “word of the year” for 2024, and it feels right. I’m determined to get through this internship, pass the board examination, and get my career off the ground. Maybe I’ll go back and get my master’s degree. Maybe I’ll work in the field for a bit at a school or hospital or another practice. Maybe I’ll jump right in and start working as a free agent. There are so many possibilities, and I’m determined to make something work. As a wise man once said, “success is my only motherfuckin’ option, failure’s not.”

I’ll maintain this blog while I’m in Indiana to keep y’all updated on the goings-on of my life. I can’t promise consistency, but this corner of the internet is where you can continue to expect to see the musings and observations of Jessa Joyce, whoever it is she’s becoming. I hope she’s becoming something great, and I hope this move will be the stepping stone she needs to realize her power.

Here’s to a new year, a new state, and a new adventure.

The World is a Scary Place and I’m Kind of Over It

When I was a much younger Jessa, I thought I had a future in journalism. I envisioned myself curled up on a leather sofa in my high-rise apartment in NYC typing up a rough draft for a juicy exposé. It wasn’t exactly my dream life, but it seemed more attainable than, say, going on a world tour as a Taylor Swift-level rock star, and just as cushy. And I was good at journalism. I remember joining the university newspaper on a whim and absolutely wowing the editors with my writing skills. It seemed perfect.

But despite earning my journalism degree, I never pursued news writing any further. Because frankly, it’s depressing as hell.

And I’ve heard Hell is pretty depressing.

I don’t like to read the news. I keep up on it, sure, but I don’t enjoy it. I feel like these days, it’s all bad news, and lately I’ve been feeling overwhelmed by the weight of it all. So many awful things are happening and I feel powerless to change it.

Literally last night, my wife watched this video on how the right is boycotting damn near anything and everything remotely queer. Imagine someone hating you so much, they protest your very existence. And the sad thing is, it’s working. As the YouTuber in the video mentioned, Bud Light’s stock fell drastically after partnering with transgender influencer Dylan Mulvaney. There are enough people out there who hate me and my loved ones to cripple an entire corporation. It’s scary.

And this shit happening in the Middle East is upsetting as hell. The whole Israel vs. Palestine thing? I don’t even know what side I’m on anymore because the more I research it, the more I’m not sure there even are good guys, save for the innocent civilians caught in the crosshairs. Like, I support Jewish folks having a safe place to live away from oppression, especially after everything they’ve been through throughout history, but does it have to be like, right the fuck there? Where people were already living? It’s a messed up situation all around, and I wish there was an easy answer.

And then there’s the mundane dystopian shit happening here in the US. There’s a whole fucking subreddit dedicated to inspiring stories of medical debt and the perils of capitalism. A teenager sacrificed her college fund to avoid homelessness. People have to ration their fucking medications. There are plenty more stories out there of horrible situations rebranded as inspiring that highlight just how messed up our society has become. Like, I’d call our healthcare system a joke, but it stopped being funny a long time ago. It’s damn near predatory. I shouldn’t be one happy accident away from ending up on the streets. No one should. And yet…

I hate it here. “Here,” as in Earth. “Here,” as in “being a part of humanity.” I want to believe people are generally good, but the greed and the prejudice and the violence is leading me to feel otherwise. I’d like to believe it’s not human beings, but power that’s the problem. None of these atrocities would happen if not for the people in power. Everyday folks like you and me, we’re not the problem, but we still sit idly by and let these people do rotten, despicable things to us and our fellow man. And it’s fucked up because what can you do? I feel helpless.

I guess that’s part of the reason I write this blog, to feel some semblance of control in this bleak world. I hope my words reach people. I want us to fight for peace, for housing and food and healthcare for all, for a better future for us human creatures. We’re all in this together, and I hate seeing how divided and polarized we’ve become. I feel weary, but I have hope that things will get better in my lifetime.

Maybe I’m too optimistic for my own good.

How to Be More Original

So, I signed up for a virtual audition with The Voice. Get your laughs out now; I know it’s silly. But I’ve wanted to be on one of those ridiculous singing shows ever since I was little. The Voice. American Idol. X Factor. Like, I’ll take any ridiculous singing show.

I remember watching those shows with my family as a kid and imagining I was on that stage, performing in front of millions of people at home. My name would be in lights. I’d actually be popular, which was a pipe dream for socially awkward, autistic little Jess, who discovered performing music was a way to make people like her.

My first foray into the world of televised singing competitions came in college. I found out the American Idol auditions were coming to Detroit. I stood out in the cold with my two best friends at the time, Crass, rehearsing my little heart out with my guitar and chosen two songs. I’d play a jazzy cover of “You Give Love a Bad Name” followed by my original, “Oceanography” (which I recently re-recorded and released, actually).

I knew I had it in the bag. And to be honest, I did make it pretty far into the audition process. Something no one tells you about American Idol is it’s not one or two standouts and five hundred duds auditioning. NO. It is quite the opposite. You’ve got five hundred Mariah Careys in the room with maybe one or two William Hungs.

So the fact that I made it three rounds into the audition process is astounding. I passed the initial audition, another audition in front of a set of producers, and made it to the executive producers.

Judging by the fact that I’m typing this and not, I don’t know, on a yacht sipping a pina colada with Simon Cowell somewhere, I obviously didn’t make it.

It’s what the producers told me that will stick with me forever though.

You’re just not unique enough.

After years and years of being the outcast for being too unique, I, Jessica Joyce Salisbury, was not unique enough.

I almost laughed. It didn’t seem right. I wasn’t like any of the other girls auditioning. I had blue hair at the time, for cryin’ out loud.

I’ll forever associate my blue hair with the Band That Will Not Be Named, though.

I guess in a sea of, say, Ypsilanti, I was basically the town’s Taylor Swift, but in a sea of millions, I was just another girl with a guitar. There wasn’t anything original about me. I didn’t have some sad sob story except the fact that I grew up without friends (which is a sad sob story another million other singer-songwriters already have). I didn’t even have that unique of a look. I didn’t come in there looking like Lady Gaga, or that girl who wore a bikini to her audition. I was just…ordinary.

I think I’m running into the same problem now as I go about promoting my music. Every artist needs a hook, and I honestly don’t know what mine is. I’m autistic and ADHD. So? There’s millions of neurodivergent artists out there doing the damn thing. I don’t have a unique look about me. I dyed my hair black in part to quell comparisons to Swift, but now people, especially older ones, compare me to Ann Wilson from Heart. Not that I minded either comparison all that much, considering both women are musical inspirations (and big gay crushes) of mine, but I wish I had a look that stood out more. Even the split-dyed look I sported for a while has already been done better by Melanie Martinez.

I don’t know what I need to do to set myself apart, but I’m sick of being the only person who cares about my music. I just wish I knew how to make other people care about my music. I can’t just pull a U2 and download my songs onto other people’s devices or like, stream “Oceanography” or “Sweet Honey” directly into people’s heads. (If that were possible, it probably wouldn’t be legal.) I’m not a virtuoso by any means, but I’m a damn good songwriter. That should be enough, but we live in an age where anyone with a laptop can be a songwriter and produce their own music. That’s not a bad thing, but it does make the competition that much more fierce.

Maybe I’ll get through the Voice auditions and finally get my big break, who knows? All I want is for my music to be heard by other people. I’ve always made music as a way to connect with other people. I don’t do it just for my own amusement.

Even if I do listen to myself more than I’d like to admit.

I didn’t answer the question in the title, mostly because I still don’t know myself. I guess I’ll always be on the journey to find new ways to stand out in a big wide world of other creators. That’s all we artists can do.

Trapped in the Mitten: A Tale of Wanderlust

Yesterday at Thanksgiving, I was helping my niece put together a puzzle of an outer space scene. We pieces together each of the planets one by one until a cohesive picture began to emerge. I was putting together Saturn I think when my niece shows me her completed Earth.

“Look!” she said. “This is Michigan!”

I mean, Michigan is on Earth, so she’s not wrong.

I never thought about it before, but when you’re little, the world seems simultaneously huge yet tiny. To her, Michigan is the world. And if I’m honest, Michigan is my world too.

I was born and raised in south Detroit, just like a certain city boy who took the midnight train to anywhere. Technically, “south Detroit” is Downriver, a collection of blue-collar suburbs just south of the big D. It’s admittedly a bit of an industrial wasteland in some areas, and a little more “Kid Rock” than I’d like. Like, confederate flags aren’t an uncommon sight, despite being in the frickin’ north. But it has its charm, and I don’t have any regrets about growing up there. It made me who I am.

Still, I never left the safety of the Mitten. I chose a university that was within the same area code as my hometown. After graduation, I briefly moved to Florida, decided it sucked (it does), and came back to Michigan within two months. And after marrying my wife, we settled in the posh northern suburbs of Detroit where she grew up.

Michigan is my world.

So why do I have this wanderlust?

I’m not well-traveled by any stretch of the imagination. The furthest I’ve been from home is Denver, Colorado, and that was a relatively recent development. I’ve been out of the country once — to Canada, which doesn’t count if you’re from Michigan. Michigan is Canada Lite, with the Tim Hortonses to prove it. (Is that the plural of Tim Hortons? Because there’s definitely more than one.)

I’m pretty sure there’s more of these in Michigan than McDonalds.

I guess I feel like I’m missing out on a grand wide world by being stuck here, within 100 miles of where I grew up. That’ll be changing soon, as I’m moving to Fort Wayne, Indiana for my internship. But still, it’s Indiana. I’m not even moving out of the Midwest. I’m arguably moving to a worse state. Like, what reason does anyone have to visit Indiana? Aside from my girlfriend and my internship, there’s not really anything there for me. Corn? A racetrack?

Okay, that’s kind of cool. You win this one, Indiana.

I hope I get to see all the wonders of the world someday. I hope I get to try the sushi in Tokyo, which I’m told is out of this world. I hope I get to see Britain, where my family came over from all those years ago. I hope I get to go on a safari in Africa, or take a train through Europe. I wish I had the money, means, and free time for all of this stuff. I envy those trust fund kids who get to jetset around the world and blog about their adventures, while I live vicariously through other people’s Instagram feeds.

I’m lucky in some ways, though. There’s a joke that there’s three classes in the US: those who go to Disney World once a year, those who’ve gone once, and those who have never gone. I’ve gone a few times, certainly not every year, but more than the average American has, probably. I should count my blessings instead of longing for a life that’s out of my reach.

That, or hope I get that one song that blows up so I can go on a world tour with my band in our private jet.

I can dream, right?

NASCAR and Cheeseballs: Nostalgia for a Family Lost

Welp, it’s that time of year again, the time where we ~~conveniently forget about how our ancestors killed a bunch of people~~ give thanks for what we have. I never used to care about Thanksgiving. I only liked getting to dress up as a Native American in grade school, which at the time felt like I was honoring my people. Then, as an adult, I took a DNA test and realized I’m genetically much more pilgrim. Of course every white family from Kentucky is convinced they have indigenous ancestry, which is why we thought costumes like this were a good idea.

Sketchy history of the holiday aside, Thanksgiving wasn’t really a thing I cared about as a child, aside from my retrospectively racist costume choices. I never liked turkey unless it’s drowned in ketchup. I never liked stuffing or cranberry sauce or any of the other traditional fixings. I still don’t like football, despite the Lions and Taylor Swift trying their damnedest to make me care about it this year. And to be honest, going to see family wasn’t really all that to me. I didn’t have any kid relatives save for a few cousins, but they were younger than me and kind of tight-knit with each other. What I’m saying is I would have rather been at home playing Pokémon or something.

My family doesn’t meet for Thanksgiving like we used to, and it’s kind of a shame, because now I’m finally at an age where I would actually appreciate it. My coworkers are all Arab-American, and I often listen with envy as they discuss their families. In their culture, family comes before everything else, and siblings and even cousins stay close well into adulthood. Our family used to be like that, but ever since my grandmother passed away several years ago, we kind of…fractured. I’m very close with my parents, probably closer than most adults are with their parents, but it all falls apart if you go out any further than that. I call my sister maybe twice a year, I haven’t talked to my brother in ages, and my cousins and I will “like” each other’s statuses once in a while. That’s about it, though.

On holidays like Thanksgiving, I feel like I’m missing something. I visit my wife’s family, and I love them to death, but part of me misses the loud, rowdy Southern charm my biological family had. I remember everyone sitting in Grandma’s living room cracking jokes and talking shit, back when I was too young to fully embrace what was happening. I regret taking those days for granted, but I was just a child then. I didn’t know that kind of thing didn’t last forever. I thought we’d be celebrating holidays in Grandma’s house with all my aunts and uncles and cousins until the day I died. It’s all over now — my cousin watching NASCAR in the middle bedroom, my grandma cooking lard-drenched but delicious homecooked meals, my uncle eating the nasty cheeseball he brought for Christmas every year. It’s nothing more than memories.

I know chosen family is a huge deal, especially in the queer circles I’m a part of, but I feel like I’ll always be missing out on something by not being close to my blood family. It’s not too late; things can change. Maybe I just need to be the one to initiate it. Maybe I need to call my sister more. Maybe I need to make amends with my brother. Maybe I should meet with my cousins IRL someday. I can’t make things the way they were when I was a kid, but I can start something new.

If you happen to be close to your blood relatives, never take that for granted. It’s such a gift to have a close relationship with the family you were born into. And if you’re like me and not as close to your family, I hope you find your chosen family to spend days like these with. Be thankful for the people you have in your life and the time you spend together, because someday, it may be little more than a distant memory.

“Perfection is the Enemy of Completion”: My NaNoWriMo Experience So Far

I realize I haven’t been very active on here as of late. That’s for a couple of reasons. First of all, I’ve been busy packing and preparing for the move to Fort Wayne this January, which is rapidly approaching. To be honest, clearing out our apartment and getting together all the things we’ll need for the sixth months of the internship is kind of a full time job. Especially when you’re me and have an ungodly amount of clothes. Like, dragon hoard levels of clothing.

Most importantly, I’ve been working on NaNoWriMo this year. Will I actually finish a novel? Probably not, if I’m being realistic. I restarted my story like five times already and decided to ditch it altogether for an idea I had like a year ago, so there’s that.

I haven’t actually finished a story since elementary school. When I was a kid, I’d come up with stories all the time, and while the teacher was rattling off about long division, I was busy penning the first great children’s book written by an actual child. I was kind of legendary among the staff at my school for my precocious writing abilities. It was one of the few things I was good at, because God knows “obeying social norms” and “paying attention in class” was not among those things.

I still remember the series I sunk my heart and soul into: The Great Adventure. Creative name, I know. And the plot was equally creative — three pets get lost and have to find their way home. No, I definitely didn’t steal the idea from Homeward Bound.

As I got older, the stories I came up with got more complex, and the middle school teachers I had weren’t as keen on me writing during class, so I just kind of…stopped. For a while at least. When I finally picked up the pen again, or rather, booted up the word processor on my family’s shiny new computer for the first time, I found myself unable to get past the first chapter of, well, anything. All of my amazing story ideas were dead on arrival.

I think as I got older, I lost that sense of fun I had when it came to writing. Now that I was in my teens, and eventually twenties and thirties, I held myself to higher standards than I did as a child. Everything had to be perfect. I couldn’t half-ass anything, lest the entire project turn to dog crap. I couldn’t even write a few pages without having to revise everything and eventually rewrite what I had altogether.

For NaNoWriMo this year, I decided to try something different. I have this character from the project I’ve been working on (that I’ll probably never finish) named Tessa, and she’s canonically thirteen years old at the start of the story. I thought to myself, what if I write the story from her perspective? Perhaps writing from the point of view of a literal child will allow me to get into that headspace I had when I was a kid, when I could write anything. There was room for errors because hey, I was a kid. I don’t have to hold myself up to these ridiculous standards because realistically, a thirteen year old’s diary would be a trainwreck of ideas and stream of conscious blathering.

And so far, it’s been working. I’m kind of excited to follow this character through seven years and watch her grow. I plan to adjust my writing as she gets older, which will be a fun experiment in style. I don’t think I’ll finish this project by the end of November, but I’m off to a great start finally creating something, anything.

My girlfriend often tells me perfection is the enemy of completion, and it’s better for something to be published and imperfect than flawless but unpublished. What use are stories if no one ever gets to hear them? For once, I want to finish something I’ve started, and I’m feeling good about this one.

Without further ado, here’s a little snippet of what I’ve been working on:

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Dr. Roberta told me to start keeping a journal to track how I’m feeling every day. She also told me to stop selling my Adderall to the high schoolers. Welp.

My mom bought me this college-ruled notebook from Meijer. It’s got enough pages to last until I’m like, twenty. The front has a bunch of flowers and crap. (Wait, am I allowed to say that?! Crap crap crap CRAP!) I don’t really know what I’m doing as far as writing goes. Do I just write down whatever pops into my big dumb head? Do I address this to anyone? Like, “Dear Diary, this is Tessa Mae Harlow reporting on my boring life.” I don’t even know what to write about. I’m thirteen, I’m not interesting yet.

I’m writing this from the stoop of the old brick house down the street. I usually come here after school to get away from my parents and brother and listen to the cassette tapes my mom passed down to me. That is, if I’m not hanging out with Kit or going to youth group for the evening. The house itself was built in the 20s I think. It’s “has a radiator in the living room” old. Sometimes I sneak through the window when I’m feeling brave and take pictures of the interior. It was probably a pretty place in its prime, but now it’s what you’d call dilapidated. “Dilapidated,” incidentally, was one of the words I had to spell for the spelling bee last year, and the definition is “decayed, deteriorated, or fallen into partial ruin especially through neglect or misuse.” I could spell that, but not “below.” I’m still salty about that.

Yeah, I’m having a lot of fun with this. I’ll keep y’all posted.

Another Shot of Depresso

Hi! I’m sure you’re wondering where I’ve been. After all, it’s been an unusually long time since I’ve posted anything on this blog. I typically try to post something a few times a week, but it’s been crickets here lately. I wish I had a good reason for my silence, and I guess I do, in a way.

Depression. It’s weighing on me, hard.

This week has already been terrible. I’ve been beaten around like a piñata at the universe’s birthday party, mostly due to work issues. I’m working thirteen hours a day between my two jobs, and it has not been a walk in the park. Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong this week, and I’m scrambling to keep it together at both places of employment. This, on top of preparing for our annual Halloween party this weekend and playing piano for my dear friend’s show and getting ready to literally uproot my life in January for my internship. It would be a lot for anyone, but tack on a heap of depression, and it’s a wonder I’m still breathing. I should have been suffocated by the weight of it all a long time ago.

I have bipolar. It’s not a secret. Historically, I’ve tended toward mania, which manifests in me drinking all the alcohol and having all the sex and eating all the food and buying all the worthless shit and basically being an overall bad decision machine. I’ve had bouts of depression, but they’ve never lingered for very long. But this depression has been harsher for some reason. I’m feeling so much existential dread, like I’m just this tiny flea in the grand scheme of the universe and someday I’ll be forgotten and it’ll be like I never existed. I ruminate on these things until my brain goes numb and all I want to do is tend my little make-believe farm because that’s the one damn thing I can control in this life.

I know a lot of people turn to me and my blog for hope. My words reach people, and that alone means so much to me. I sincerely pray I will have the drive to continue this blog soon, because right now I’m feeling burned the fuck out. I want to be an inspiration to others, the person they look to like “Hey, Jessa survived bipolar, and so can I!” Maybe that’s why I’ve been dealt this hand, in the grand scheme of things. But I won’t lie and say it’s an easy cross to bear.

I have faith that I’ll come out the other side of this. I always have. It’s just going to be an uphill battle.

Don’t Be a Dick: A Small Rant

I write this as I sit at the front desk of the gym I work at, a job I picked up because I was already awake at 5 in the morning and already at the gym anyways. Most days, it’s easy work — I just check people in and pass the time with whatever activity doesn’t require me to leave the immediate area. Most of the patrons are very sweet and take the time to greet me as they come in. But every now and then, I have to deal with someone who is so horrifically entitled, I just want to crumple them into a ball and toss them into the sun.

The sun deserves better than your sorry ass.

Such was Man-Karen, who complained that I did not turn on the sauna for him, which is a. not my job and b. not my job (but in cursive). And no, he was not nice about it.

Which leads me to the point of this post — don’t be a dick. It’s literally that easy. Did you know it costs zero dollars to not be a dick? It’s scientifically proven that it feels good to not be a dick. And it’s the main tenet of pretty much every major faith.

Here’s the thing — when you’re a dick to someone, that shit sticks. I’ve had dozens of other people be incredibly kind to me this morning, and yet who am I going to remember later today? The one douche-wad who inspired this post.

It goes back further than that. I’m talking decades. I still remember my childhood bullies. I had some good friends and good times, but you know what else I remember? Other Jessica S. faking that I hit her so I’d get in trouble and not get to go on the ice cream trip with the other kids. (At least I turned out to be the superior Jessica S.)

Maybe you think being a dick is going to convince people to side with you. I guarantee you, it will not. It will make people resent you. One of my favorite books on dealing with relationships, Dale Carnegie’s famous How to Win Friends and Influence People, teaches that being agreeable and not argumentative is the key to winning respect from others. The more cantankerous you are, the less your side of the story will be taken seriously. I know I personally don’t have any increased desire to turn on the sauna after Man-Karen’s meltdown.

Like, bro. You have opposable thumbs. Turn it on yourself.

Life is already hard. Don’t make it harder for other people by being a dick for no good reason. Sure, they’ll remember you, but not in a pleasant way. You’re the gum stuck to the bottom of one’s shoe. Shit ain’t cute. Be nice, y’all.

Creating, For the Love of It

What is your favorite hobby or pastime?

Art.

It’s something that comes so naturally to us as kids, but for some reason, the urge to draw and color and make cool stuff gets kicked out of us by society.

I remember briefly working as a paraprofessional in a special education classroom at an elementary school. There was a kid with a severe disability but a huge imagination, one of my favorite students I’d had the pleasure of working with. During coloring time, when he went to color the snowman picture he’d been given, he made it pink! I loved the creativity, but the teacher…not so much. He got in trouble for coloring the snowman pink, and I got in trouble for letting him.

This song is a true story.

I think stories like that are a huge part of why adults don’t indulge themselves in creative endeavors. If strict teachers don’t kill that spark, the crushing weight of capitalism will. We’re constantly bombarded with messages that we need to monetize whatever it is we’re passionate about doing, or else there’s no sense in doing it. If you love playing video games, better stream it and get followers. If you love baking, gotta sell all those pastries. And if you’re an artist, if you’re not getting paid to make art, what’s the point?

But when I create art, I don’t do it with the intention to sell. I don’t take commissions (unless someone asks really nicely). I don’t even care if the stuff I make looks good, really. Because I don’t care about making money with my art.

Yeah, not making any money with this masterpiece.

So why do I do it?

Because I really like it!

I’ve always loved doodling pictures of various characters I created, or making little comics. It’s just how I relax. Some nights, after a long day of work, I like to grab my iPad and just draw whatever comes to mind. It’s so freeing to not have to answer to anyone artistically.

When I create music, I do so with the intention of performing or recording it to share at some point. I consider myself a professional musician, so I treat it like a job. But because of that, music is not as relaxing as it could be, because I’m constantly thinking about such things. Will people like this song? Will it get streams? Will playing it live make for a great show, or is it a complete snoozefest?

“This one’s really gonna knock the socks off ‘em.”

With art, I do it for me and me only, because I love it. I’ve talked about how “amateur” comes from the Latin root for “love.” I consider myself an amateur artist, not because I’m particularly bad (I’m not great either), but because I don’t treat it as a profession. I do it out of sheer love.

I think everyone needs a hobby they don’t monetize, something that’s for them and them only. I hope you find yours, and when you do, may nothing steal that spark of joy it gives you.