When I was receiving unemployment insurance, I thought it was going to be the “Summer of George”. I was going to have time to work on projects that I had set aside, because of time constraints, and I was also going to try and culture myself: maybe learn a foreign language visit some museums, fancy bullshit. But as time progressed I found myself in a petrified state of transitory life (I became lazy). I started on many of the projects but never got around to completing them, rationalizing to myself that “something was not quite right so there was no point in finishing.” Something else occurred during this period of decomposition: there was a malaise that pervaded my being. I reasoned that it was my total lack of direction that was the problem, and although it was a source of shame, it was not at the root cause of my anguish. I soon realized it was my fortuitous circumstance that was so distressing. I felt guilty that I was getting paid like a fat cat to do absolutely nothing (if the government asks I was looking for a job). When I divined the source of my troubles I still did not make any adjustments, it was enough to know that I wasn’t clinically depressed or worse maturing. Nope, the “Summer of George” continued until all resources were depleted.
