NSFW: The Chronicles of a (Free?) Girl, Chapter 1

We're going on month 3 1/2 of unemployment, and instead of becoming the next Andrew Tate or Dan Price, I'm just gonna document my jobless journey in a way that inspires and delights.

"Just when I thought rock bottom couldn't get rockier, there's more."

I've been wondering lately who the fuck I am and what the fuck I'm doing. Should I become a songwriter? No, because I don't play an instrument, so that would probably be weird. What about the starving artist route of working at a coffee shop until my big break comes on the silver screen? Yeah, but that's financially risky. Especially now that I live in Gramercy.

Today, next to Gramercy Park, I watched a brown and white pigeon jerk its head like a chicken while eating a piece of bread. After mulling this over on several occasions, I've finally decided brown and white pigeons are my favorite color combo.

Anyway, this pigeon didn't care if she looked ridiculous eating her afternoon snack. No, she was merely existing, engaging in an activity that brought her copious amounts of joy.

What would Virginia think?

As I was walking to the Target in Union Square, I passed this guy who was telling his friend that his favorite book was Mrs. Dalloway. That was honestly unexpected to hear. I like Mrs. Dalloway, too. The flower motifs are nice, and that guy with PTSD is relatable.

Speaking of Virginia Woolf, she would argue this is a terrible time for me to exercise creative freedom given my financial circumstances.

In A Room of One's Own, she stresses the importance of women having their own money, food on the table, and basic needs met to produce strong writing. But Virginia inherited money from her wealthy aunt when she died, so she had a yearly passive income.

This means I need a long-lost relative to contact me on a burner phone and ask, "Hey, Isabella, I'm on death's door and want YOU to have my millions. Sound good?"

Speaking of VA again, my whole life, I've wanted to write a novel. But I've been thinking, if I wanted this, wouldn't I write more? Over the past 10 years, I've started writing three novels. But I can't bring myself to commit to one without thinking of an even better idea. It's imposter syndrome, really. Or I'm like, maybe I should try screenwriting?

Committing to the bit

When my boyfriend and I were in the Rome airport two weeks ago, I asked to change lines before going through security because I had a hunch the other one was faster. When we got to the waiting area at our gate, I asked to change seats twice, because maybe we preferred the window view instead of our original seats facing the people.

As unemployment continues, I become more indecisive. One rejection and I want to tear my life apart. One fateful interaction and I'm convinced the universe wants me to drop everything I'm doing and act. An example of this is my unemployment journey thus far.

On my first night of unemployment, my boyfriend and I went to Norma in Kips Bay for pizza. Our waiter was an actor, and he was telling me all about the Alexander Technique. At my friend's 27th birthday party, I met her friend Maya who's a comedy actor. She gave me her code for a free year of Backstage. Our broker who showed us our new apartment was a former Broadway actor.

I'm fully convinced actors are guiding me where I'm supposed to be. But then I'm like, ahhhh corporate America. Copywriting. Money!

Commitment is hard.

A wiener dog scratching its head on the sidewalk curb

What's so annoying is I just want to write stories I like. In my own style. In my own voice. But I also want to make money. So sometimes I'm like, yeah, let AI come for all our jobs and then the government can pay us and then we can all do what we love. Give me that passive income so I can be a modern Renaissance woman.

I think I have to figure out what I like and then get good at it. Does everyone have an existential crisis during unemployment? Let me know.

But, like, really, what do I like?