This essay comes right off the heels of reading Sasha's suggested antidote to my writing woes: there hasn't been joy in most of my essays since the sprinternet. But just go go go, he insists, and it'll all work out. Well I don't want to put words in his mouth. His post mentions that the fast writing helps one better speak the truth of their experiences. But that's my problem. I'm [redacted] years old but when I tally it all up I think I have, at best, [redacted]/10 years worth of memories and experiences to speak on. I'd like to let loose on the keyboard more but I'm always wary of staying pseudonymous. Every bit of information is a bit that can narrow me down from 7 billion to 1 billion to 1, Death Note style.

*Pause to sip coffee*

I straight up just deleted the beginnings of an anecdote that I felt was too personal. This is incompatible with drafting without editing. I'm hyper-aware that someone might read this. These are barbaric demands from Sasha.

*Pause to sip coffee*

I take it black which isn't nearly as bad as some coffee aficionados proclaim. It helps my brain whir up which helps me to loosen up. The state of play is often more elusive than I'd like. There's always stakes as an adult. I'm unemployed and although I work on portfolio projects I find interesting and just past the boundary of my ability, the playfulness of it is ultimately a facade, a cope. I have to find work at some point.

*Pause to sip coffee*

Some days ago I sought out The Chinese Restaurant episode of Seinfeld because it's legendary and I hadn't seen it. Hearing George shout, "You know we're living in a society!" in exasperation delighted me. We really do be living in a society tho. There's so much to navigate, negotiate,

*Pause to sip coffee and think of a third n-word*

Nourish all of the time. I've never been so free and I've never been so confined. Web development is something I've wanted to Try My Best At for a while so I don't think I'll regret this period of my life even if I don't end up where I want to be. Deathbed me will hopefully think, "Good on ya, kid. Love ya bunches." But I don't want to speak for them.

*Pause to sip coffee*

I don't really know where to go from death talk. I had a nearish-death experience that induced a lot of self-loathing at the time because it was entirely avoidable and my fault. Self-loathing comes more naturally to me than self-loving, although some twitter folks say self-esteem is a better term than self-love. It feels more honest for me to say that I have esteem for myself than that I love myself. These are distinct concepts to me because esteem feels tied to what one does and love feels tied to who one is. My internal jury judges my actions Not Guilty while it's more of a hung jury with regards to who I am. I make mistakes and I learn lessons and I become better but it feels too slow, like at this rate I'll be the person I want to be in 200 years. I don't have that much time, unless Balaji is to be believed.

*Pause to sip coffee*

I think I'm delusional about being human sometimes. I should always be as flawless as possible, I owe that to everyone in my life. What I make and what I write is competing with all other avenues of attention, so it's wretched to give anything less than my best effort. This is the pressure I apply to myself. If to err is human, then why do errs feel unacceptable to me?

*Pause to sip coffee*

My coffee is drained and so am I. Thanks Sasha.