Over at Copyblogger, a blunt marketer tells the truth.
Ms. Trunk breaks down my dreams a manager’s purpose.
At a time when it’s easy to hate America, Hunter pulls this out.
Muddled transparency of life with in-laws over at A Good Husband.
Years and years ago man was only concerned with his survival.
His day to day consisted of clubbing wild beasts and avoiding being eaten. He wasn’t intellectually advanced enough to know the impact he could make on this world. Man’s purpose was simply to be for as long as he could. It was with evolution and developing societies that we become aware of our own mortality. And with this mortality came an unjust fear of the unknown.
What was to come upon our deaths, and with that, what stamp could we make for ourself while our short existence ran its course?
I recently received my stimulus check.
I originally intended to save the entire $600 bucks for my first vacation in seven years.
But I’ve given it some thought, and since I don’t really NEED the money (as in the real definition of neediness), I’ve decided to use a portion of it to help stimulate someone else.
I am going to donate $100 of my check to Kiva.org and I hope I can get other people to do the same.
I’ve been feeling a bit unmotivated lately.
Sometimes, I lose the pep in my step. More often than that, I get anxious about whatever so-called plateau I’ve created for myself.
It feels like I am in all three right now. I’ve been working on waking up my internal cheerleader, but she’s become a lazy bitch. So I’m resorting to bragging on my blog.
Now, what does this do for you?
I mean, that is the reason I do this whole blogging thing. (So my obsession with making this world a better place can help others learn from my life and avoid these debacles – in case you weren’t sure.)
My feed is now working. So go subscribe before it’s too cool and you feel like a poser b/c you’re getting on the bandwagon late in the game.
Btw, until I find a programmer who likes being paid in cookies and smiles please bear with me as I learn this blogging stuff. Who knows what interesting issues lie ahead so I appreciate your patience and understanding.
Here are many ways to decide how to be a woman:
Years ago in American society, what it meant to be a woman was decided by men and society.
Older society members would dictate how a woman was supposed to act, how she looked, what she did and who she became. Typically instituted by men, limitations and boundaries were set to reinforce the era’s model representation.
Women were never free to express their femininity on their own terms.
This will be the last post in The Ultimate Crap Detox series. I hope this process has helped even one person reevaluate their relationship with money and things. I hope it helps many others too.
Here are parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 for those of you who are interested in participating.
It’s been almost two years since I went through my own crap detox. I remember how difficult it was and how much I believed I would feel down forever. Now, like most hard times, I am thankful for having gone through it.
Our minds are designed to make us remember things we wouldn’t consciously remember otherwise.
They are stuffed inside, waiting to be excavated.
It’s incredible, really.
How the brain will do things we otherwise have no idea it is doing, but it manages to get things done for us no matter what.
Last night I watched an episode of Darren Brown. He’s a famous psychological illusionist from England and he is brilliant.
I truly dislike my job.
Like many Americans, it drains me of all my energy, leaving me empty and unfulfilled. I wake up and feel like I am showering with shackles. Facing the day with an invisible burden.
I’ve read the advice. Often scouring the Internet for some ingenious insights. I’ve blamed myself, my youth, and my grip on the past. I cried self-pityingly, disturbed by myself.
Over time I came to accept the structure, the corporate crap, the rules, the industry, the lack of ingenuity. I found peace with my situation. Battling my distaste wasn’t giving me anything but stomach cramps.
