It is 2:00 AM. I can’t sleep.
I’m writing some bullshit about Streets of Rogue that only a few people will care about. I’m writing a post and doing videos on a game probably fewer people will care about. And it makes me wonder: what am I doing?
Day after day I ask myself that. Why am I spending the little free time I have on a game that only a few people have played and a fewer people will read about?
It’s easy to say, “because I enjoy doing it,” but for me, it’s getting harder to enjoy things. I can’t just sit down and enjoy a show anymore. I sit down, watch, and think, “I got to blog about it.” I read some of Bakuman a few weeks ago, and I could easily marathon through it. But then I started thinking, “oh, let’s write about this too,” and I wind up doing nothing.
It’s not just the compulsion to make things I enjoy a side hustle that sucks the joy out of them. It’s also just that… I’m so tired. I’m so tired and mad all the time. I don’t know what to do. I can’t focus on anything. I want to reach out to other people, but I just can’t. I don’t know why I can’t do it, but I can’t. Maybe I’m scared of my attitude rubbing off? Am I a selective mute that can only communicate in Tweets? Who knows?
It’s not just my personal enjoyment of things, but my identity as a journalist dragging me down. I spent 4 years in college wanting to be a journalist. I like to write things and I’m always fascinated to learn new things. And where does that land me?
I’m in an industry that’s just remarkably bad. Venture capitalists kill off sites that are perfectly profitable. The bastard site known as Facebook caused a big content pivot that’s destroyed alright website. Some sites are switching from actually paying staff members to taking in content from underpaid “contributors.”
Really, the journalists with the most stable careers are the corporate bootlickers, the centrist scumbags that insist on both sidesing issues, the folks that cheer on war and eagerly hope for more.
And it’s clear that some people don’t view journalists as neutral arbiters of truth, anyway. What they really just want are cheerleaders. I always thought that rightwingers only see journalists that agree with their values as legitimate and everyone else as “fake,” but as the past few weeks have shown, the liberals, the supposed good guys in this country, will immediately call for resignations and blood the moment a journalist they liked report something inconvenient to them.
I feel useless, but in some twisted way, I prefer to be some useless nobody instead of a sociopath pundit. Still. It feels so hard to be jazzed about this career when it’s so unstable.
It all just feels empty now. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning. I don’t know.