Why This Climate of “Nothing Is Good Enough” Is Deadly AF
We are being hustled to death
This hustler mentality is so bad, that even newborns are working hard to earn those newly-minted hashtags! I won’t mention names, but a celebrity mother, who just welcomed her long awaited baby girl has been blowing up Instagram with her live accessory, and while there are some cute moments, it’s hard not to feel a bit overwhelmed with how quickly she put that infant to work!
Look, I’m not knocking the mentality that makes room for several gigs at once because we all know that getting those coins is the only route to living your #bestlife, but what happens when none of it is enough?
How do we handle the pressure of low funds and the impossibility of keeping up with insanely paid influencers and entertainers, who can afford to stock Macy’s with mediocre shit and open up restaurants with average offerings, and still be hailed as unreachable success stories who work hard AF for their titles?
I can speak for myself and those who apply when I confirm that doing the work and some, doesn’t always add up to the crown jewels.
You get to the place where you assess and re-assess before concluding that as much as you would like to cosign the newbies to the lane of finally “being good enough” to have good things, who tweet about their latest awards and how the blood, sweat and tears eventually paid off — there’s the other side of shit that’s darker and quieter because of the growing number of assaulted souls who are exhausted beyond words.
We’ve accepted the fate of the furiously unsatisfied, and quite frankly this never-ending ride is the code that has given administrations, past and present, the audacity to proudly boast about the healthy economy that requires unhealthy bodies and souls to keep those gleaming wheels turning.
Everyone is in on it, even the reporters who are supposed to blow that whistle on the nationalized scam that features formerly mentally sound citizens, who start taking years off their lives once they sign contracts that shuttle them from frigid offices to Uber driver seats, and then off to retirement homes for those couple of hours that will help pay for that last basic need on the list.
And if you’re a writer, then you must know about the thankless hours of pitching for free because those winning ideas will be distributed to your paid counterparts without consent. And then when you do land the assignment with the average pay rate, the process wears you out, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s too late to revive the dream of being a dermatologist.
Except, how the hell will you pay for that shit?
As a Gen-Xer, the dream was to attend college, and then enter the workforce, armed with the degree that would garner the trajectory that leads to the highest point, and then once that’s done, you lazily figure out how to spend the remainder of your rapidly fleeting days.
But the forgotten generation is the most tired of all, because we’ve been feted with all variations of lifestyles that don’t seem to include the valid testimony of how we got fucked over without the recognition that we’ve endearingly earned.
Imagine being in your twenties and dreaming of a platform that can provide the tunnel to editor’s picks with just links and clicks to verify the safe passage of your gems, but the catch is that you have to wait another fifteen years; until the clogging of submissions that include yours, theirs, and the ones who haven’t been conceived yet.
It’s not the robots that will get us because we are feasting on each other pretty consistently, and the worst part is the shaming, and how it’s done with full spread gluttony and the sponsored captions that are timed reminders to make you feel shittier for trolling immaculate lookbooks, instead of mapping out the fastest way to get to where you will never end up.
I’m not opposed to dying tomorrow, but while I’m still barely alive, the plan is to just fuck it!
It’s okay to be a glorified loser, who can’t compete with the best of them. I’m at peace with taking ownership of my “regular” status. Accepting defeat has introduced me to the pride of exploring how that feels and why panic mode isn’t an option.
Even if I were running my own hit TV show, and considering offshoots for more, while working to open the first-ever Nigerian-Japanese fusion restaurant, and adding a wellness camp for the insomniac over-forty crowd, plus the handful of slated websites that are being programmed with SEO companionship — there would still be a gaping hole that can’t be filled.
Unless I experience a premature death, and then my legacy will be entrenched in the praises of how nothing was ever good enough because real hustlers never stop.
So, I’m quitting before I even begin because I do actually want to sleep while I’m alive.
And if that’s not good enough — fuck it!