I simply do not dream of labor.

I'm at a coffee shop in Midtown—standard setup: strangers rambling about nothing in a city that’s everything. Next to me, a friend is on a client call, being forced to make the logo bigger. Behind me, someone’s interviewing for a job. The moment I realize the formalities, a chill shoots through me—a full-body cringe.

The idea of rejoining the 9-6 workforce feels like peeling my skin off. I’m hit with a familiar cold panic, the kind that says: Run. But why? My time (15+ years) in Advertising and Marketing has been good. Sure, what we do is mostly pointless, unnecessary, and helps no one (except a company’s C-suite and shareholders), but I’m good at it, AND it’s always been fun, right? Hell yeah!

Well…except for that one time…

I left a long-time agency gig to get a better title and more pay and ended up at a company where I created supermarket displays and tchotchkes for bars. I’m a copywriter. Messaging and big ideas? Sure, that’s my jam. But crafting a Wild Turkey 3D cutout for the Super Bowl? Hard pass. My boss at the time was brutal—a gatekeeping legacy employee who used her knowledge like a weapon to make me feel clueless. I'd shut my office door and cry, trying to summon enthusiasm to write endless presentation decks for booze-brand "experiences" while my 16-year-old cat was dying. Those were dark days.

I brought in my ex-BFF for freelance design help, and having her there was like a salve on a war wound—comforting, but I was still bleeding out (emotionally). She saw firsthand how toxic the place was. But this story isn’t about her, for once.

So, yeah—maybe that explains part of the trauma. But surely not enough to make me feel nauseous at the sound of words like “portfolio” and “LinkedIn,” right?

Then there was the time I jumped ship from that aforementioned toxic retail branding gig (I'm still not sure what we did there) and followed a mentor to the music industry—my dream job—or so I thought. I imagined creating epic campaigns, rubbing elbows with musicians, and documenting life on the road à la Cameron Crowe. After all, the CEO did co-found MTV.

Instead, I got stuck writing copy for a sad little music app that couldn’t hold a candle to Spotify. Worse, I spent my days dodging two mean girls—decades younger and experts in office bullying. On days when Regina George was at a level 5, I’d hide in the sound engineer’s booth, the only refuge from their relentless nitpicking. Writing radio ads ended up being the highlight of my “music industry” gig, and even that was short-lived. When office politics finally booted me, I left with a severance check and a sense of relief.

Since then, I’ve freelanced my way through some great opportunities (shout out Blink Fitness) but none of them nourished my soul. None of them let me soar and do things I know should be done—big ideas, big risks, big rewards? There’s always a catch, a shackle, a ceiling. (And the reason my portfolio is not up to par in my opinion). While freelance is freeing for sure, it’s not always dependable, and in a capitalist society the need to have a stable income gnaws you into falling in line (and scrolling LinkedIn for a 9-6 you really don’t want.)

But where to next? Another Creative Director position at an agency to make ads? In the year of our Lord 2024, who is even making ads anymore (and why?) People don’t buy products because of an ad—certainly not the old school “traditional” commercials back when network television was our norm. They buy them because some talking head—a mom in her pajamas in Ohio or AI Kelly Clarkson—is on their social feed telling them to. The only people who care about ads are advertisers. They make these beautiful short films for brands like Nike and Primark to win awards amongst each other, not to sell shoes. It’s a circle jerk. In reality, the industry and the game have changed. And not for the better. The glory days of Mad Men are over. It all just seems doomed and irrelevant. Like applying to be a violinist on the Titanic.

So here I am, racking my brain, journaling, meditating, and even trying ketamine therapy (legally, don’t worry) to figure out my dream job. Maybe if I can pinpoint the career that would spark me from within, I’d be able to muster some ambition to go after it. But guess what? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I simply do not dream of labor, babe.

And as a Gen X-er, that feels scary to admit (seems more of Gen Z’s whole thing). But, I know I’m not the only one.

Even with my overactive imagination, I’ve never pictured myself working. When I try to visualize my future, I’m not at a desk or on a Zoom call—I’m just...being. My skills? Communication, imagination, humor, empathy, writing, and rooting for people to find their own joy.

Ideally, my job would be getting paid to exist. Money just...showing up in my bank account for being alive. Venmo payments for the pleasure of my presence. Seems fair.

But until that windfall rolls in, I need to figure out how to be useful. How to parlay my skills into a valuable commodity. So, I’m consulting with ChatGPT—since it’s already gunning for my job—to help me decide what to do next.

We’ll see how that goes.

Meanwhile, I’m currently on some freelance projects and I’ve got ~15 hours a week to spare. So, if anyone needs a ME for paid gigs, hit me up.

As always,

Live, Laugh, Busk for Cash

XO

Me