dubkitty wrote:there's a part of me that would rather go on disability and sit on my ass than work, despite the fact that inaction is utterly corrosive to my heart and spirit.
Similarly, I'd have a few recluse championship belts if there were such a thing. It's weird, but when I'm getting my ass kicked by work I'll occasionally pine for the times where I'd sleep for 14 hours a day, staying in the house for like a week straight, and the "freedom" that went along with that. There's some kind of perverse comfort in that situation. It's total bullshit, though.
You'd think that with all the time in the world I could have become a master of whatever I wanted to invest myself in, but without any kind of imposed limit except for the money in my savings account I never could commit myself to any productive or self-improving activity. Instead I'd just feel like a zombie the entire time, feel like the anthropomorphization of a thousand-yard-stare, and STILL fear going out into society. I'd feel like a thousand-yard-stare while doing a thousand-yard-stare, shit was meta.
Huge waste of time, HUUUUUUUUUUUGE waste of time, and really damaging.
I'm way way way better now, physically and especially mentally. I bet that I could go back to that lifestyle, like an addiction, but I'd rather kill myself; no fuckin' way that's ever happening again.
