Why writing is the best job in the world
An elevator pitch to the unconverted
Writing is the fucking best.
Seriously, if you’re underworked, overpaid, and generally satisfied with the direction your life has taken, then you’re doing it wrong.
It’s time to wake up, snort the coffee grounds, go back to sleep, get up around 3pm and eat baked cheese snacks for breakfast, achiever.
As a writer, abstract concepts such as work and happiness will no longer be a concern. You’ll be able to wallow in the fetid pool of your own neuroses as long as you like, all from the comfort of your own bed.
Burdened under the weight of your ample self-confidence? Not any more, fuck face! With writing, aggravating conditions such as confidence and esteem are a thing of the past.
Fed up with showering twice a day? Or more than once a week? More importantly — are you fed up of wearing pants? As long as the question isn’t ‘money’, writing is the answer, person.
When you’re not busy self-diagnosing your way through the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, you’ll be able to pass your time near-crippled by your inability to pay the bills this month.
Unable to string a sentence together? Worry not, unremarkable biped! Instead of putting words on paper, your days will be filled with unencumbered genital flagellation and flaking on friends until they stop calling, ensuring you never have to leave the house again!
In fact, within hours of adding ‘writer’ to your twitter bio, you’ll feel new lows in self-worth, productivity and inspiration.
What the fuck is Twitter? Who cares!
But wait, there’s more! Faster than you can say ‘Netflix subscription’ you’ll be learning how to justify shameful new lows in procrastination as ‘research’.
Instead of holding in the bitter regret of lost love and your failure to trick anyone into fucking you recently, learn to direct your seething hatred and abject misery through the keyboard of the food-smeared piece of shit laptop you’ve had since ‘netbook’ was a word.
Within a gin-soaked decade of false starts, crippling poverty and so much ramen the grocery clerk at the local store secretly weeps for you, you’ll be able to focus your thoughts into a searing beam of lexical competence, the likes of which is rarely seen outside of comments on YouTube videos.
Come now, anthropoid! Stop drifting through the existential ambivalence of a successful career. Instead, fill your days with benign pathos and tumultuous inactivity by taking up your true mantle: