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I was not prepared for the consequences of my poll. But hey, I did ask. I will try to make this interesting.

Before Twitch, and before Youtube branched out, there was streaming service called Mogulus (what happened to them, anyway?). To describe it would be redundant. Some politicians and other important people used it, but in my former neck of the woods it became very popular among those who played video games. While Mogulus eventually left us non-paying customers behind, I always loved the streaming-with-a-live-audience concept.

I’ve subscribed to many streams since then, a variety of those with webcams and voice only. Then… 2D/3D custom characters-as-hosts began growing in popularity. At first, I was content with being an audience member. But with this new creative angle, I actually became interested in streaming myself! I was also seeking a new twist on a hobby I loved (gaming), and to reclaim my creativity and free time from the growing dreariness of my life-draining job. And vent, of course.

I grew caught up with setting up: the branding, scheduling, format, icons– then, one evening, I grew fed up with my self-imposed procrastination. Perfect, after all, is the enemy of good, and Virgos gotta have everything perfect before they start anything… so I brute-forced my way through the insecurity, installed the software, queued up a visual novel I’ve been itching to play, and DID IT LIVE.

A pissed-off anchorman yelling "We'll do it live!"
My last braincell had ENOUGH.

…And it was Fucking Terrible from a didn’t-even-optimize standpoint, so I didn’t feel bad for the 0 viewers on my first run. (Well, one viewer, but they had to catch a DnD game after giving me audio advice.) But with experimenting and practice, things began coming together. Sometimes I still goof, though.

Some World Building

I was determined to create my own model, but I lacked the technical know-how and did not have the money to commission a model or rigging– but I was up for the challenge. I play around with VROID Studio, following tutorials and learning how to modify the defaults. I knew that I wanted my character to look like… well, like me. But cooler.

Seeing other Black VTubers has simply been inspiring.

The background is white. A Black person is standing, arms positioned as if in mid-laugh. They have dark blue twists, black lipstick, and two-colored eyes (one silver, one dark brown). They are wearing a gray pleated skirt and a long-sleeved white shirt. Note the early glitch weirdness: the twists are floating above the scalp, and the skin has an odd matte/clay texture.
The background is gray. A Black person with their arms akimbo and looking upward. This time, their hair is in Bantu knots and the lipstick is dark blue. They're also wearing black glasses with round lenses, black fingerless gloves, a crop top with the Precious band name on it and jean shorts.
The background is the non-binary flag. A closeup of the afrormentioned Black person from the shoulder up; they're wearing a black spaghetti top. The glasses have a circuitry patter in the lens. Their left eye is a light blue, the right is brown. They have a slight smile for the camera.

I have a whole section in my bullet journal dedicated to design ideas, and I’ve been taking notes of techniques and tools other VTubers found useful. But I’ve also have paragraphs and doodles of the character’s backstory. Inspirations include Ghost in the Shell, SOMA, Macross Plus, Digital: A Love Story, Janelle Monae’s Metropolis, and… Chrono Cross? And if I was any good at games I’d throw in TASbot for good measure, but it’s fun to think about. [Note- a surprising lack of Asimov; make a Three Laws joke later to make up for it.] If you haven’t guessed by now, I enjoy the ethical, technical, and whateverelse-cal ramifications of artificial intelligences, cyberpunky transhumanism, and what it means to be “self-aware.”

I also hold a similar view as Monae’s Mayweather’s when it comes to androids in fiction:

I speak about androids because I think the android represents the new ‘Other’ …You can compare it to being a lesbian or being a gay man or being a black woman… What I want is for people who feel oppressed or feel like the ‘Other’ to connect with the music and to feel like, ‘She represents who I am.’

Cindi Mayweather: Behind The Music


The Story So Far

Artificial intelligences can take years to fully build upon themselves, so in some cases a brainprint of a living person is superimposed onto AI code to “jump start” the self-awareness process. The provider of said brainprint would be the designated Arbiter of the resulting AI; they have a lowercase-a as their designation (ex. “a.Issac”). You can think of Arbiters are caregivers or tie-breakers to logical conundrums. AIs created with the jump-start method tend to be eerily similar to their Arbiter, but may eventually branch off into their own quirks and identity.

There are the “functional” AIs that can write or fix the stock market for you. But, the fun thing self-aware AIs have in common with humans is to find a purpose in life, a niche to fill… or a hobby. Conveniently, Avi’s hobbies line up with mine, and even more conveniently, are easily accessible from px’s origin server with an Internet connection. That’s how “Avi” decided on a name for pxself- it’s a type of video format, px found samples of. For the time being px does not wish to inhabit an android body, but that can change in the future. Avi’s content with communicating with the outside world via px own compilation of the Self-Aware Visual-Variable Protocol, or SAV2P. Lastly, Avi is 3 Laws Compliant on a technicality.

…Or you can just say that Avi is digital!me, but scifi afrofuturistic lore is more fun.

Current Things

Like most folx, my backlog is Large. I’ve been using streaming as an excuse to go through it! I have quite a bit of science fiction and cyberpunk titles to play, and I love to gas up any LGBTQ+ creators. I also like puzzlers and whatever weird thing I come across. I’m currently enjoying ValiDATE, Get in the Car, Loser! (currently grinding; I’m getting my ass kicked), and APICO or Vilmonic for the comfy streams.

I’m naturally taciturn, so I tend to rely on chat prompts and backseating– but I love interacting with the chat! And I am susceptible to ranting if you give me a juicy enough topic. I do have a tendency to get wrapped up in a game and forget about it for a minute or two. There may also be a lot of vocal stimming: the doots, the beeps, the sweeps, and the Spaceballs reference. Tiny improv songs and more songs as well! And I take jokes and run with them.

My stream is rated for MATURE AUDIENCES, to be on the safe side. I talk about all sorts of shit, and cuss a lot, and I’m filtered only a little. I talked about weed that one time and my regulars may know a little too much about the freaky dinks I’m into.

Don’t let the more recent video fool you; I’m still on the quest for bone mischief.

…I just scheduled a cuddle date on a streaming night; it’s little wonder why my schedule is in shambles.

Future Stuff

I am undergoing a cosmetic upgrade as I consider how robotic-looking I'd like to be, as well as contemplating neo-pronouns to refer to pxself. So far, "px" is appealing to me. (Maybe I should do that in-character thing more often. I’m also considering a distinction between AIs and “self-aware” ones. SAAIs?)

Someday I dream of nailing down my schedule. I’m more concerned about consistency.

I could work on my hardware. I need to upgrade my mic; you can hear our cats brawlin’ in the background. The computer can be upgraded later; it currently gets the job done (it can barely handle Stray, VSeeFace, and Twitch Studio running at the same time).

Still no plans to monetize. And considering how Twitch likes to act (badly, to clarify), I’m really not keen on monetizing through them anyway. Maybe I’ll do a tip jar thing in the future, for beer money or emergency funding (I do have Ko-Fi).

With Twitter worming its way out of my social media diet, I’ve mainly been in Discord servers. I need to lurk less, however. I’ve also been following some related hastags on Mastodon. Oh yeah, and what’s this thing?

I hope y’all enjoyed this post, and if you have any cheers and advice I’m all ears!

A bad edit from the cover of the My Love Story!! manga. The cursive "love" from the original is replaced with "vtuber," pink outlined in white. So, it now reads My VTuber Story!! in pink text.

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Two panels. The first is a Batman sketch done by Amber, but is accompanied by the text "drawing out for you the same ol' microaggressions and straight-up harassment that has made up the majority of my internet adventures." Second panel: We see Amber now; she has brown cropped hair and glasses. She is holding up her sketch to the other party, a man named Arch who is visibly disturbed by her output. Arch says, "Th-that art makes me feel uncomfortable." Amber, with an expression of weariness, replies "Welcome to the background radiation of my life."
I’d apologize to Willis, but I’m not particularly sorry about this. Amber’s line is just too relatable. SRC: Shortpacked by David Willis.

While Twitter is having its meltdown (due to sabotage or genuine ineptitude, or both), Mastodon is another microblogging service receiving a massive influx of new users. Some are just trying it out; others plan to migrate permanently, and you’ve probably heard about it by now.


It had certainly been a learning curve away from Twitter’s centralized style, for Mastodon is made of individual instances (think: different servers) that can “talk” to each other. And the Mastodon instances can also “talk” to other decentralized services within the Fediverse! Check out Fedi.Tips, by the way; that site can explain things better than I could.


There’s been some… issues. Some users have been calling it “growing pains” or (cue eyerolling) “Eternal September: Mastodon Version.” The problem with these red herrings is the implication that the current problems are just the effects from the deluge of new users. And that said problems are a recent phenomenon.


It really isn’t, and I’m not talking about the technical stuff.


A marginalized person enters a space and realizes it is intolerant of their lived experiences and right to exist. This isn’t just limited to blatant declarations– microaggressions, the papercuts of experience, can add up over time. The prevalence of the overculture allows the same harmful attitudes to carry over because someone refuses to see beyond the tip of their nose (and, you know, unpack their privilege).


And it has become apparent that Mastodon (among other things) has a racist problem. Here are some recent examples, and certainly not limited to…


  • the Content Warning debacle: requests to put politics behind a content warning, ignoring the fact that sometimes, entire lives are politicalized (another version of “censor your life for my comfort!”),

  • the history of PoC-led instances being harassed and even shut down (Look up what happened to PlayVicious; I’ll wait.),

  • Black people being told to “just move instances/block” instead of admins/moderators doing the necessary work to ensure spaces are safe from the get-go (it’s giving strong “segregate yourself” vibes, for starters, and the onus on the marginalized to change their behavior),

  • not to mention how one instance’s “I’ll allow it” is another person’s “WTF?!” Unfortunately, sometimes that “wtf” has been trolling, hate speech, and other unsavory topics that’ll get them defederated from more decent instances.


Marginalized identities, in general, don’t have the luxury of “just picking” one or “starting fresh” in a new place. It has to have policies that align with their comfort and safety, and hopefully the moderation to reinforce it. And it sucks if we pick the wrong one: shitty mods, toxic culture, or just a petri dish of grossness.


This wasn’t “just a migration” for a lot of people, self included. I lucked out on discovering an instance that was explicitly queer-friendly, anti-fascist, and so far has been a safe(r) space for people of color– but this would be my third time moving in my 6 years of using the Fediverse, and I may move again. So it goes.


Background radiation, indeed.


So, as always, Black people are having to carve their existence into a space. Like what we’ve done on Twitter and the many platforms before it. We’ve been finding each other and talking. We’ve been remembering servers come and gone and still holding on despite the insidious grip of casual racism. We’ve drawn boundaries. We’re comparing notes. We’ve been having dialogue. We are claiming space.


For Mastodon to not only supersede Twitter but to thrive in its own merit, it needs to not only listen to the vulnerable among us, but implement changes for a better Internet culture. The tools have been there, and so have been their highlighted shortcomings.


Now what will they make of it?

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In addition to my favorite news feeds and the growing list of webcomics, I keep up with a lot of blogs. Remember when RSS was a lot more prominent? I still use that technology! And I’m still mad that Google killed GReader.


As I caught up with my subscriptions on Feedly, one of my favorite blogs had, what she called, a “vulnerable post.” It is American Girl Outsider and how she has been doing the past while.


Depression is a fucking liar of a mental illness. It tells you that no one loves you, no one wants you, that you don’t and aren’t wanted anymore, and that the world would be better if you weren’t here mucking it all up. It gives you ahedonia and lack of appetites and you might sleep too much or not enough. It steals your ability to write, read, draw, sew, craft, create, or anything.

…

And all I could think, as I sat there having missed something I cared so hard about, was that by the time I got to it, who would care what I had to say? Who cared about anything I had to say?

American Girl Outsider


That hit pretty hard.


I also have depression. It has been around for longer, but actively managed for almost years now– and you guessed right: the start of the pandemic was what tipped me past my breaking point and made me get help. Some days are still harder than others. I have more tools at my disposal along with some chemical help, but sometimes…


There were times I’ve thought of quitting. And I have, twice (the-one-i-can’t-remember and verbose/terse). Three if you include Dreamwidth— neglected or conscious decision? It’s the same in the end; I’ve stopped updating publicly there. But, whether I have an audience or not, the writing has been good for me. And despite my low-key schedule, I do enjoy Vtubing even with 0 viewers. I try to make time for the things I enjoy, regardless.


Scheduling is hard. And, like Nethilia, I beat myself up for missing the releases of things I was psyched about. It’s halfway through October; is anyone still interested in me Vtubing with ValiDATE? It released in September without my notice through a depression fog. And generally, October is and has been a rough month for me– and National Coming Out Day has been forgotten. Again.


I have drafts, but lately it has been a struggle to get them out. I have prompts I can’t expand through the fog.


I’ll schedule this; it’s all I got. My calendar is intimidating and So Much right now.

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I’ve forgotten how to write to you.


I’ve rediscovered some of my favorite music tracks. Maybe I should rejoin Last.FM.


I had the best birthday in a long time: Korean BBQ, which I have never had, and karaoke. I love food and I love eating with my loved ones, and the communal style of the BBQ was affirming and fantastic. We shared food and stories. As for the karaoke, I did a total of 3 songs! A new record. I really missed it, nervousness be damned. Cheering on my friends was great and the crowd’s energy was loud, but amazing. I saw some old faces, too.


I’ve tentatively begun using a mobility aid, when I need it. It’s a walking stick, but I am calling it like it is. My hip gets wonky and it is OK to know when I need help.


I understand the thrill of no-top-tiny-car driving now. At least, in good weather. Lil Nas X and Tokimonsta are perfect for cruising around in a tiny convertible.


I love earrings.


I love seeing the old places in which my nesting partners used to live. I met some family. I’m disappointed that I cannot do the same– a restaurant reopened here, but it really isn’t the same.


Next week, I’ll meet more people. I won’t know anyone.


I relearned patience. Look at the creative arts and animals while it drizzles; the adrenaline-pumping rides will still be waiting. There is so much to see. And we have hours in the day.


I’m still nervous when holding her hand. I am out of practice. I don’t know how to speak up about it.


I reorganized my room a little.


I’m still non-binary.


I am so glad I escaped my old job. Everyone noticed: I’m glowing now.

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Here’s what I did:


  • went to work
  • ate at restaurants (rarely, certainly more than I used to)
  • hung out with friends (small gathering at home, or a slightly larger gathering in an outdoor setting)
  • wore a mask when going indoors anywhere (except at work; I don’t have close contact with coworkers)
  • adhered to others’ request to test before hanging out, tested before major events
  • tested regularly (and for suspected symptoms or potential exposure)
  • And I now realize how I tend to begin, or at least liberally use, lists.


I went to work Monday, as usual, and as the day winded down I noticed I was pretty tired– but I chalked it up to a certain weekend where there was debauchery that I was still recovering from. "If I don’t feel better after a full night’s sleep, I will take a test," I reasoned with myself. And you know how this played out the following morning.


I can’t tell you where I could have gotten it. But I can tell you how I felt.


Guilty


The instant my test beeped "POSITIVE" I shut myself in my room.


I let everyone know as soon as I knew, fancy PDF and all. I may not have been as responsible as I could have been– did I forget to wear a mask that one time?– but I made sure to do what I needed to do, once I knew I had Covid.


And I felt guilty.


I thought back to that one sneeze, before laying down for a from a Sunday nap with my lovers. Should I have known, then? I worried if they would soon come down with it, too. I traced back all my steps the previous days of ducking in for errands, to every elder person I had a conversation with. I mentally recalled how much time I spent training a coworker in my office– and how close we were, for a change. Did I forget to wear a mask, somewhere? Was a place a little two crowded?


Obviously, someone got me sick. Maybe they didn’t know, or didn’t care. But I was fine with that. I took that risk going outside, right? Every time I stepped out my front door was a roll of the dice.


But I could have gotten someone sick.


Thankfully (from what I can gather) it stopped at my bedroom door. But someone could have died.


Yes, still.


Frustrated


One is the acknowledgment that Covid-19 is here to stay. We are probably going to be living with this virus for our lifetimes and our children’s lifetimes and beyond. Given that’s the case, the emphasis has to be to resume normalcy, which means cutting out policies that are disruptive to everyday life.

The end of quarantine? What people should know about the CDC’s new Covid-19 guidelines


I’ll express this again: getting sick and missing out on a paycheck was more of a disruption to my everyday life. And once again, I’m retracing my steps, but through years instead of days. If only we cared about one another more, and not the economy. If only the CDC had a backbone. If only we had a safety net in place for those that grew sick.


The pandemic revealed some glaring flaws in our systems, and unfortunately I don’t see any fixes to them anytime soon.


I am fortunate to have a support system in place, but others aren’t so lucky.


Lonely


Communication was through The Blessed Internet or my closed door. People were notified; Doordash reinstalled. And I settled in for the impending isolation. "I’ll be kinda okay," I thought, "I can pretend I’m back in 2008 where the only thing I worried about was online classes and Maple Story. Only better, because there’s better games and better phones! And a Nintendo Switch!"


But I still woke up to Day 3 really feeling it. My body aches were gone, but (pause for dramatic effect) there was an ache in my heart because my phone wasn’t blowing up like my AIM Messenger program on my Windows ME computer in 2003 on a Thursday night.


But seriously.


Work takes up a lot of our time. For me it’s 40 hours of it, per week. You remove that from your schedule and the hours of nine-to-five are pretty quiet, because everyone else is busy working. Also, like, people have stuff to do.


Me in Discord joining and leaving an empty voice channel.
When you’re 30 minutes in chat and you realize…
And what was worse, I didn’t get anything accomplished! Once again, COVID has robbed me of my productivity. Instead of baking bread at home with my dog, I was too busy being an Essential Worker. Instead of writing my gay magnum opus, I was too busy recuperating and being sad at my lack of cuddles.




Being touch-starved is a terrible thing, and since I’m a terrible person I would wish it on my worst enemy. When you have COVID, you obviously can’t glomp your nesting partners. Or snuggle after a long day. Or curl up together in bed. Or bite them for no apparent reason.


I refuse to feel guilty for resting when I need to, and I’m used to low interaction online. But the lack of physical touch from another human being was easily the worst part of quarantine for me.


I felt like life moved on around me, and I was in an impenetrable stasis where I was not perceived.


I had no form.


Sometimes, you could hear me. Maybe.

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Note: Please be aware that I am doing a lot better now! This was just so… raw… that I felt compelled to post it here.


So I realized an uncomfortable truth over the weekend, while we were off doing our own things– and I did mine, and it was great; I saw and old friend and we caught up in years. But the problem surfaced itself when I went home alone to an empty house. 


I played a video game, then went to bed. I talked to no one.


When weekends were talked about I kept interjecting “that sounds fun” and maybe hinting at wanting to be invited in the future. In one case, I received an “It’s not your thing.” To which I countered that the event we were going to was also not my thing, but was proven wrong with the frequency of which I went. He conceded that point.


But then I got to thinking of two things: Why was I trying so hard? And what do I even enjoy any more? What is my thing, anyway?


For the latter, that was what put me in a funk all week.  I know I’ve been in a loop of trying new things, an endless search of finding more of what I like, or what I used to like. I know what I like (sushi! sci-fi! chiptunes! writing!). I know what I do (like, my job, and sleeping in, and drinking way too much tea). I also know what I like to do and what I would like to do. And yet I feel so driftless. Because… if any of that is me, or just things I like to do? Is there a difference? Should there be?  Those few years I was becalmed really messed me up. Because the things I like now– are they genuine, or just stopgaps to keep the sadness at bay? And like the damaging habits I created to protect myself, do I need to discard them?


The real answer, as always, is a bit more complex than that. The things that kept me sane whilst becalmed are valid; I just need to apply them in a healthy and fun context. I realized I stopped writing poetry because I was tired of being in pain. But there are other things to write stanzas about, like this beautiful dream I have that’s worth living. I need to do these things not in the context of escapism, but the creativity it’s supposed to be and catharsis when necessary. 


But.


Why was I trying so hard?


The non-eloquent answer is, frankly, that I’m lonely. I wish I was invited to things, too. I wish I had more to do that aren’t solitary pursuits. And I wish I wasn’t so petrified of reaching out to people and I was more of a conversationalist and was interesting and not so scared.


When all was said and done that Saturday night, it was just me, Xenosaga III, and Pokemon GO. Not a message received (but I didn’t reach out, either). No one dropped by (but I haven’t invited anyone yet, either). My nearest and dearests were out of town, and the majority of my friends have moved away from this city or were otherwise busy (or so I assumed). 


I grew too used to being alone. But now that I’ve felt that it didn’t have to be that way, the slide from solitude to loneliness is acute.


I need to do what they’re doing– reaching out, making plans, being a little brave. But it all seems so hard.


The only thing to outgrow are these chains.

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Do you ever think about
The books you left behind?
Every time you moved– and then–


The very first move was an adventure to something greater. Our first real house, with a garage and and attic and my own room. The move after that, a grander adventure away from home.


When I was younger, I had the privilege and the ability to bring with me all I had: every game, every glass bottle, every book. Perhaps I didn’t have too much, or it was easier to let some things go, or I just didn’t notice and when I did, it was inconsequential. The second move found me still young but old enough to choose what to leave behind –a book here, some bottles there… Later in life, there were moves necessitating the need for me to sell some things: gas money for the drive, monetary compensation for what I couldn’t bring with me.


I have moved a total of 8 times, if I am counting correctly. But the one move I think of often is bittersweet, but I did something a little different.


I volunteered at a library for something to do. I was shaken out of a job and aimless. We cataloged books in Excel, recycled others, and dusted the shelves for a few hours each day. Not many people came in. Bored high schoolers, mostly. Locals would come and donate more books and peruse the shelves, occasionally having their names written down in a notebook as they checked out things.


I eventually received an eviction notice; I couldn’t be aimless forever. So I was going back home, again. I had to downsize, again. But not to a pawn shop or bookstore or a GameStop.


While packing I took stock of everything: the furniture, knicknacks, flowers, books… more books. One pile held the ones I wanted to keep, and another of books I wouldn’t mind losing. And this time, there was a new stack: some I couldn’t bear to part with, but I did nonetheless. The last two stacks were to be donated to the library.


I touched each book, recalling fond memories of my discovery. How epic the 3-in-1 paperback felt, and how it left me thoughtful long after I finished. Another I read in high school and the excitement I had when its sequel released. A small book of poems that carried me through college.


They were dear to me, but I found them in a library once. If I left them there, if someone needed them they will be there.


I left books on the library selves.


–Once, it pained you
But you grew used to letting go, so
You gave them up for someone else to read.

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From the green world


Floating beyond collapsed stars


I glide for many, many years


For so long, time stopped for me.


And when I arrived


In another galaxy


A gate waited for me


In welcome:


“Salutations. Rest here


and you may see old friends.”


After the shaky landing I walked


Their corridors,


Searching for the ones I’ve lost,


The echos of those I left behind.


These people were near my age.


I’ve crossed doors and platforms and storage and


No one else.


Except


One voice


Stopped me mid-step


So I turned and saw


Someone


(her)


Long dead, to me.


An android, to me.


This one did not know who I was,


Just where I’ve been


With a system update.


And so, I spoke our password


And her camera-eyes blinked in learned recognition.

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I wrote this sometime in 201X.


Episode 35. She’s sitting on the swing, not rocking much, and staring out into space. She had little idea what she was doing, and had been walking, wandering, for awhile. When her name is called she runs off.

Today, because I’m frankly Internet Millennial Scum, I thought of one in the style of those over-elaborate and weirdly-specific “Current Mood” meme:

Lynn Minmay running off the stage, for she no longer enjoyed singing.

And that is a nod to Episode 34: After declaring she did not want to sing, she runs off the stage and away from a disappointed audience.

It took me this long to realize I was in that same predicament.

I was (am?) Lynn Minmay.

—

Between the long work hours and exhaustion and expectations and stresses of being a brokeass Black queer that was unable to follow the same Picket Fence Blueprint as most folx (not to mention the growing pains of learning), I lost myself.

My hobbies began collecting dust. I withdrew. I never talked much, but at that point I could’ve been an good mime. My writing slowed drastically. I stopped dreaming. I stopped day dreaming.

I didn’t quite enjoy things anymore. That is, if I ever did anything. Auxiliary power seemed to go toward anything I could shut my mind off yet still enjoy it. Or escape. Temporarily. Because the knowledge of what awaited me was always there: grind and disappointment. And when I did have time, there was always one question: What the hell do I do with myself?

Depression, punctuated by anxiety and the occasional crying jag, was all I was. There were still good times and my self that could be gleaned through the cracks, but they were becoming fewer and fewer. True happiness seemed temporary; sometimes it was better not to even try.

In a non-poetic way: I lost my mojo.

I’ve lost touch.

“What am I even singing for?”

And thus I limped through for a year or three.

Fast forward to a year later, this month. Change happened. And I am just able to put it all into words now.

“What am I even singing for?” That was a question that haunted the back of my mind, but now I must answer.

Because I thought I just “changed.” Or worse, grew up! Who’s got time for hobbies? You should be happy with a 30 minute walk around the block! You’re supposed to be an adult now! And like, you’re too tired for all that fun stuff anyway. Better save up your strength for some adult thing or whatever.

Bleak, yeah?

Have I changed that much? Am I a boring ol’ so-n-so that doesn’t have enough time anymore?

I honestly don’t think so.

There have been genuine changes– no one can be static forever, I think of them as enhancements– but there is still the hint the things that are simply just buried.

I’m finding me again.

I’m finding my songs. My old ones.

And for the first time in too long I can see the finale: yes, walking toward the sunset in a ruined city and the SDF-1 totaled… but I’ve made peace with Misa and Hikaru and there’s a new song on my lips.

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It has been a rough two years, and for me the world didn’t even shut down.


It moved on, and me with it.


While others were able to stay home and bake bread, or walk their dogs, or just slow down to enjoy time with their families– I was (am) an essential worker. Not quite as essential as retail, restaurant, or banks. But since my company provided product for those industries, I was essential enough.


For a time, my hours were cut. Others were laid off, and in retrospect I was not so lucky.


Eventually regular hours resumed– then increased– but with a pay cut. So we had to work more for less, and the work never slowed down. 10-hour days. Weekends. Overwhelming. Everyone exhausted.


And when the pandemic was declared “over” in all but name, not much changed, except the meetings resumed. Good news for them: profits were down but manageable, because cuts. Next meeting, better news: more clients, and our original pay was restored. And then, several meetings later, the dreaded two words:


“record profits”


as they wheeled in little freezers to fill with ice cream for employee appreciation, and said again when we were given $20 gift cards and candy and an extra holiday off. They were quick to mouth more appreciation during more meetings where we ate popsicles for two hours, trying our hardest not to fall asleep to their PowerPoint presentations.


For a lot of people, the writing was on the wall and it echoed the circulating articles. As the work didn’t slow but cost of living rose, the discontentment only grew. Burnout was high, and so was the toxicity. People began to leave.


I left, and from what I hear people are still leaving.


I hate to admit why I stayed as long as I did. I’m a creature of habit, and nearing 5 years of employment in that place, I did feel a little special. Wanted, even. Everyone came to me to solve issues with a system I knew like the back of my hand– and if something stumped me, I knew how to find the answer. I knew all the little things that other people stumbled over. I could find any box size, and almost any obscure item. I knew how to fix the temperamental computers with a few clicks. It was comfortable. And in tough times there is nothing more comforting than routine.


But comforting routine isn’t enough.


Not when a the grocery bill of a household of 3 humans (and 2 cats!) ballooned to $200 a week. Not when I over-utilized my credit cards because I simply didn’t make enough per hour. Not when the gas money budget doubled overnight due to oil corporate greed. Not when we want to remain in our expensive rental house, which is now considered a bargain under the current market. Not when I dreaded going into work to the point where I swore I made myself sick. Not when the work never ended, my help ultimately thankless, and my peace disturbed by the toxic gossip and despair bringing everyone down.


2.5% simply was not enough. But that was all they could give, because of their “budget.”


That realization was the final push I needed to be brave.


I type this up now, with a new job and calmer mindset.