About the Growing Cost of Stability.

If the cost of stability is mind-numbing (or perhaps mind-rotting) monotony, then it’s growing less and less worth it as the one day blurs into the next. While manning the register once seemed like a daunting task, I have now capped out as far as my cashiering efficacy goes. I’d say 90% of the produce PLU’s have been committed to memory, and I have now resorting to doing mental register math to stay somewhat alert during my shifts. It’s been great to dust off the mental number line, but alas, even regurgitating change upon receiving whatever denomination of bill is handed to me has become simple.

I worked 8 days in a row, had two out of three days off, then was scheduled for what would have been nine straight. I say would have been, because, as my luck would have it, my throat became scratchy yesterday at work, so I went home. Normally I would have toughed it out, but I have a wedding to attend this weekend (which will hopefully provide some much-needed inspiration as well as a change of scenery) and didn’t want to risk worsening my condition immediately prior to this joyous occasion.

It’s come to the point where I am starting to fancy returning to school for yet another crack at this grad school thing (fourth time’s the charm right; to be fair, while technically it’ll be my fourth strike, so to speak, two attempts were foul tips). If I were to do it, my first and probably only choice would be Boston College. My grandfather, Casper Augustus Ferguson, was recognized as the first black graduate of this fine institution, but genealogical legacies aside, it simply gives me the best chance of succeeding with the bevy of growing support networks (from medical to personal) that I have in place in the area. Stability is the name of the game, if it kills me, and while I feel it would be a step up the ladder, providing an entry point to an actual career (as opposed to a dead-end job for which I have no passion), I do have a feeling it would be a circuitous path to my ultimate goal of writing for a living.

A Master’s in Social Work, while equal parts magnanimous and rewarding, would be something that empower me as far as options (and certainly an increased salary) and occupational prestige go, but however noble the field is, it strikes me as a tad bit roundabout way to achieve my objective(s).

My issue with writing for a living is two-fold. One, I would like to write what I want to write about as opposed to having whatever abilities I may have be exploited by simply taking on random freelance jobs. Second, there is the motivation, or lack thereof, factor. When asked to write for other people, I can knock it out the park on my first swing, but left to my own devices the memoir, (a very early draft of which I finally found in my inbox) is still a work that is only about 2% complete.