I studied journalism in college at a time when the industry had just begun to cave in on itself and, when I graduated, I languished as a barista at a Starbucks in downtown San Francisco. Each lunch break I submitted painstakingly crafted resumes; first, to the Chronicle — the local newspaper — then to PR startups and marketing firms.

Over time, my once crystal-clear search for the perfect writing gig turned into a free-for-all. Desperate for anything that involved more writing and less milk frothing, I allied with fellow baristas who helped me duck away from the register to chuck resumes and answer phone calls in exchange for my unconditional willingness to cover Saturday shifts. I started to question my life choices as the twinkle of hope in my eye slowly dwindled, the end of the Frappuccino Happy Hour line nowhere in sight.

Eventually, I found a receptionist position that promised me the world — blogging opportunities, event planning, marketing, and some degree of responsibility. But I was suddenly, quietly, and unceremoniously terminated a mere two weeks after starting. My boyfriend, one of many writers in our shared house, offered an understanding hug. “There’s always Starbucks,” he said, cheerfully.

Barista PTSD kicked me right in the gut, and moments later I was signing up for Elance, breathing heavy with resolve.

Elance is awesome. Let’s talk about the money, first. I could work whenever I wanted, however I wanted, and the more jobs I completed successfully and on-time, the more five-star ratings I’d acquire. And on Elance, the higher your star rating, the better quality jobs you can scoop up. My once-exorbitant commute cost was replaced by a meager budget for caffeinated beverages. At peak operation, I was making an average $900 a week for barely 40 hours of work. Writing.

My highest-paying clients wanted transcriptions of audio and video recordings, and the second-highest needed clickbait. (“A Cat Plays With A Ball, You Won’t Believe What Happens Next!”) This sort of literary grunt work drove the cash: researched, well-crafted articles paid next to nothing. I found that winning decent article writing gigs on Elance requires a team of writers, and so I recruited a roommate to join me — which worked beautifully for about a week, until he got bored.

While I was writing, Elance WorkView snapped screenshots of my desktop for clients to peruse at will, so I found myself pulling the same silly wage-slave stunts I’d learned through college: Hiding windows for Spotify or Netflix behind rows of staunch Chrome tabs.

For three months, I worked full-time for Elance. It was exactly as glamorous as I imagined: Typing in your PJs on the sun-soaked patio, cat in lap, mimosa in hand; typing in the dining room on a Sunday afternoon, with an upbeat Spotify playlist and a dollop of Bailey’s in a mug of homemade coffee; typing alone on a Tuesday in your favorite café just after hitting the gym, periodically swigging from a glass of wine. Typing in your bed at 6 a.m. on a Monday for a client based in England, while wondering if it’s too early to crack open a beer. Typing at midnight on a Wednesday while doing your best Edgar Allan Poe impression, as a single teardrop marks your glass of whiskey.

That last one didn’t actually happen, but there was a lot of drinking going on. Because the work was often so simple, I could. Because no one could tell me not to. And, because E-lancing is lonely work.