USA or UAE or Finland?


As some of you may know, I have been studying abroad for more or less three years, in UK in my old life. Now I am thinking of starting a new life since my husband got denied a residence permit in EU.

Of course we can sit back, appeal and try to turn the decision around. It has been a year-long process to get to the point where we are told that we shouldn’t technically be even dreaming about family life (this means: me and my partner) in my home country, Finland.

Without furthermore explanations about our situation with the bureaucracy, we are considering our options openly. Part of me wants to move to United States and some part of me longs to see what life would be like in United Arabian Emirates. We are semi-seriously considering the chances of living, loving and working in one of these countries.

From my previous experience, living abroad is difficult if you don’t take the bull by its horns and demand your rights, look for the services actively and keep going. If you just live in your little room, never leave it, you will never going to stay permanently in the new place either. You will have cold feet and return to your home country, just as I did before. I was unaware of how the British society would help me on, how to find work, who to contact on those regards and where to live for a longer term. I found out nothing and it was easiest for me to chicken out on immigrating there.

Now I feel that I am more prepared to take on opportunities and am more eager and willing to see what life would have to offer me outside Finland, and even more so, EU. In here, I am searching for my opportunities in becoming employed in either #Dubai #expat or #USA #work. The contract should be at least two years and I would become the sponsor of my partner that would follow me by moving in a little bit later than me. So I would have to look for a place to stay and for work beforehand from Finland.

If you are reading this, and could be of any assistance (be it literally offering me a job in or just helping me out with sorting that or even passing me information about the countries and their immigration policies, please don’t hesitate to let me know.)




Fame, fame, fame


In a training program dinner in Germany, I was told by a business consultant that the only way I would succeed in my career as a professional writer would to become famous. I asked if he meant that I should have my 15 minutes of fame but he insisted that the more I get critiqued, interviewed, reviewed and I perform, the more writing commissions I would have.

This is a great ideal. Stripping away my privacy, talking about the most private matters on a newspaper or a magazine, exchanging it to writing commissions… Wait, let me try that. His advise was the most fun yet absurd piece of advise I have ever heard in my life concerning my career path.

Right, I have been interviewed to newspapers a couple of times, people wrote some reviews of my debut poetry collection and I have been performing, modeling and still I have turned down interview calls. One time I really regret now was the time I was asked to speak about blogging with the Interview-magazine. I turned them down because I was not well at that time. I regret it. It would’ve been a great honor.

The other time I was asked to speak about surviving my #metoo-experience. We discussed the topic at home and found it suit (due to my husband’s religion) that I would not speak about it in detail – and then I decided not to speak about it openly at all. I am not supporting silencing of victims but believe that speaking about my career and work would be more important to me right now.

Nevertheless, being famous is often an ideal for the younger generation. No matter what it takes, they want the spotlight on them. Singing competitions, talent shows, reality-tv, just to get into the world of gossip and being the talk of the town. As I previously pondered on this, it all seems very superficial. Now days I don’t even dream of making it big. The life choices I have made are not leading my path to reality-tv or even the silver screen.

I have other plans.

A poem I

A little blue girl

with a black book

of poems in,

when only the

aesthetics of thinking

will not do.

The chain of women


voicing the sounds

of literature, letters

and words

from screaming red

months to white snow flow

spilling the ink.

Cute but psychotic



I know I have touched this topic before, with the title #EndTheStigma, but because I have been lately reading many public statements of the topic online, I brave myself and talk here openly about my history. The biggest advocates for these matters can be found in your classroom, in your workplace or in your family. Not necessarily because they are openly talking about it social media like I am going to do today but because they are fighting for better treatment and trying to live on with a diagnosis.

I have been hospitalized before. I have been on heavy medication for non-specific psychotic disorder. This I used to deny, which is usually part of the illness, and was really ashamed about up until the recent months I have started to reconsider my relationship to something that could be life-long for me. I am not doomed with my condition but am told that it might never end. I know in myself that I will always be vulnerable to an another episode but it won’t cripple me for life. I won’t be send to an early pension because of this. I know I am healthy enough to keep functioning no matter what – but know not everybody share the situation. It is important to see that there are variety of symptoms, illnesses and causes to them from drug abuse to hereditary reasons – and there certainly is as many diagnosis around as there are unique individuals with these conditions.

I was tested before negative to personality disorders. I denied believing in the supernatural, I wasn’t evil or ill-meaning. I was relieved when the professionals handed out the results to me because (not wanting to stigmatize those who suffer this) I felt that at least I wasn’t intentionally trying to be mean or difficult to be with. A personality disorder can take the form of a psychosis very easily, I understand, if not attended with care.

My first nervous breakdown was triggered by a lecture in college. The author lecturing was talking about sexual abuse and it reminded me of uncomfortable situations in my past. I tried to holistically help myself through the crisis by extreme fasting and meditation. It was reviewed as psychotic, and led to my first hospitalization.Later on, I have been a couple of times picked from home to the hospital, without a prior agreement or warning of any kind. Out of the blue, I have found myself sitting in the ward and been told also by the nurses that have treated me with medication, that some of these cases might have been a mistake. I was never really told before why I was in the ward, before I met this doctor, who explained in detail that they hospitalize everybody who seems to be harming themselves without knowing it by screwing up their brain chemistry – on these periods that are spend without medication. I have never been suicidal or violent. I thought before that would have been enough proof for me to be eligible to only voluntary therapy and other treatments. Proved out that the doctor finally got some sense through to me.

Now days I am surviving the shame that goes with the illness. I no longer deny that I have a problematic mental health and am vulnerable to psychotic episodes. I have had to admit my history in for example to a school psychologist when I was applying, and told him I hope this doesn’t affect their consideration to enrol me. Not knowing if this happened already, I am really unsure if I should be posting this at all. I know some of my employers or future and potential employers might be reading this blog post and think that telling openly where am I with myself should empower me and take me forward in my life, instead of hinder it or cause more trouble.

I don’t have a fatal illness. I can function very well. I am a very responsible person and always keep up a happy face and can go through my obligations. But looking back, I have self-sabotaged my reputation in worse ways than posting this publically. For an example, I have wrote the press, some certain people and my old friends really disturbed messages about them/society wanting bad things for me, mostly due to the treatment that I have and still partly do consider not only involuntary but also unfair.

What are the symptoms of my condition then? I tend to get side-tracked, make assumptions on people and things, get hyper with accusations and spread the word about them. This might have something to do with my #metoo-experience later on in my life but doesn’t justify what I have said about/to people. I have never been delusional or had hallucinations, and I often remind myself how lucky I am for that.

Despite my illness, I have no regrets on cutting contact with people who couldn’t live with my condition. I am happy I am no longer surrounded by toxic people who truly couldn’t find a way to support me with me at my weakest.

The treatment to my condition is a long-term medication plan. I am on a treatment I rarely talk to people about. I won’t be sharing my records on what kind of medication I take or why but I know that these brief episodes I have had in my life have changed me and now when I am deleting old archives of images, messages and social media content I have produced when sick, I am happy to move on to a better place in my life.

What mostly is wrong about the discussion about mental health problems, is that the sick person usually ends up alone with the illness and is often not understood as a human being with feelings. Calling somebody “crazy” really hurts. It is completely unnecessary to call a odd person a “schizophrenic”. Never mind what kind of (psychosis prone) mental illness one might have, is never fair to call it out and start blaming the victim of the health condition.

Whilst I am typing this, I feel the need to say that this admitting my history is a huge victory for me. The more I understand about my self and my condition, the less likely the illness is going to take over me. The more I know and more I am prepared to take on early symptoms of a recurring problem, I have better chances on fighting this illness. I hope everybody reading this and fighting to have a healthy future can comment below, send me a word on email or just simply have some courage and hope through my confession here.


The subject of an artist and the muse in my life

These images are made by artists J. Löf and E. Löf from the City of Kuopio 2004. Before I started modeling more, I was drawn often by local artists I would meet.

When I left home, I was barely 16. I moved to a student flat in the nearest town from my little village where my vegetarian diet, quirky clothing choices and openly anarcho-feminist opinions didn’t quite fit in with the people around me: typical small village girls and boys, daughters and sons of pig farmers and fishermen.

Moving to town changed my life a whole lot. I already had made some friends who influenced me heavily and who I shared my style, my opinions and my outlook in life with. These friends didn’t stay in my life but with them I tried to conquer the world unknown: the world of adults who I only knew to be sitting in the comfy bars and nightclubs instead of the snow where we would spend our Friday evenings.

I never had met a living artist before I met him. He was always painting, smelled of turpentine and I had an instant wish to compete with him. He saw me doing watercolors in my room and told me that I was really bad with them. The school was giving me okayish grades for my drawings and my photography but not so great that I would have been empowered by them. I tried making gonzo videos of our parties and eventually found poetry to be my best weapon in this competition I had in my head.

That’s when I started writing seriously, in aim to publish one day.

I was only in high school when this happened. I met more artisans, music students and had some failed attempts for example to co-write a musical set in a forest. I spend my time with people who are know famous for their writing or their music, and wouldn’t even take a second glance my way, I believe. I don’t know exactly what happened to our terms but the main thing still is, that i hold no grudge and would love to reconnect.

Being surrounded by artistic people was my main life goal. I moved to the capital, tried to impress a flat mate in art school, failed, moved on, changed to an Art College. I rarely went out with my class mates because I believed they didn’t share the raw ambition I had in me. Style, diet and even politics aside. But it was good to be around people who were at that time writing full-time. This is when the Poet appeared in my life.

After long emails and silence between us, I had found truly a person that guided my through my own fears in writing. I had finally met someone who did this as a profession, no playing around anymore. The Poet promised me great things but even more so, taught me I should never give up writing, no matter what. He also taught me a lot about literature even if we parted in sad and bad terms. I still got a new book of his on the mail one day, carelessly walking to the post box.

Moving abroad changed my horizons. I met a professional fine artist that I used to get drunk with and stay up late with conversations about phenomenology, God and the arts. It was exhausting to be in a such an intense relationship with him. I got tired, hurt and it got to the point I found myself crying in my brother’s one-room-apartment floor in Helsinki again after little bit over a semester in UK. My mother had bought a painting from him but I don’t see it on our family home walls anymore. Maybe it’s on lock down. Maybe there’s no reason to remember all the time that time. I learned a lot of myself: I learned I give up easily on people and always ran back if they called my name. I learned more about art, got many books about performance art and read my poetry first time out loud, back in the day, in UK.

I had broken my one and only video camera years prior. I had given up painting and wanting to be a painter. I moved again abroad, wrote a script to a novel in a year, traveled and returned home otherwise empty handed, after weird lectures and small arguments on set. I had found not a single friend on my second attempt to escape the world I had so many times left behind. There was very little to return to.

Those years back in Finland, I decided to move back to my old village. I was old enough to survive the loneliness and isolation. I was confident in myself, maybe a bit too much, running from a job to an another, writing to a newspaper and trying to send out my scripts to publishers. This I did for years and found company in the freaks that had chosen the pure insanity of hedonism over culture, art, intellectual discourses, debate and conversation. I was on my own, for the first time. I wrote my debut film script but found none to talk about it.

Then I met somebody I later on spend a couple of years with. He was a hobbyist photographer and a sound producer and a graphic designer. With him I had to say out loud I was living my dream because we were openly discussing art every day and he was creating dreamy surrealist images of our conversations and I modeled. If I had only prioritized art in my life, I would still be drinking beer with him waiting for the weekend and devoting it to being creative.

But I guess things don’t always go your way. Even if I cannot mention names of these people publicly (because I haven’t asked their agreement for this post), I want to thank you all of them for the experiences and the energy I have had from our past together. I grew up among these people. I learned a lot of my self and these people helped me to be strong with my identity. They argued me often but taught me to say what I think. I learned about the works of Abramovic, Breton, de Beauvoir and found Sherman, Goldin, Kruger. I got my debut poetry collection published because of these people. I celebrated my victories with these people and learned of paint, installation, space, light, time, even the poetics of starry nights.

If even one of these people would be reading this post right now, I really wanted to emphasize on my thank yous. Without the people in my life I would have given up on my art long time ago, however crude it may sound. Without these people repetitiously wanting to read me, listen to me and talk with me I wouldn’t be here in my life right now. I know there’s no going back to these people due to how life changes and people do, too but I will never forget all the support and criticism I have had from these people.

Now I am in a different city again, like most of you following me for some time now, know. I live with a carpenter and am in love with him, my husband. He plays football and likes to watch thrillers. We eat, speak, live and love but the art in our lives is shrank in the images of mine on the wall and the contents of my hard drive, if not to mention the film we worked on together after I begged him to star in it. Even if we talk about culture and religion a lot, I explain him words like “feminism” and he interferes with my clothing choices, we don’t make art together. It is sometimes difficult to explain my partner that art is not only a choice in life and career but a way of life you cannot deny if you are to stay true to yourself. But eventually he understands.

Maybe he sees and knows what you, people, knew about me all along.


When you are alone, don’t be lonely


As time passes, I see myself from a distance. Who I was before, is still there, but more like an image of what cannot be again.

I see a young, single girl, living alone and taking every opportunity to travel, to meet people and go wildly like fire to the world. I appreciate the memories I have from that time: I was truly free in every sense of the word.

Being alone can be the most productive time of your life. Being alone gives you the space and the time to do whatever you please. Even if it’s the time it takes commuting or walking back home from the city, it can give you more ideas than having random chit-chats with people you like or even with those who you love.

What I learned from being alone and can now admit, is pampering yourself, taking care of yourself and most importantly – taking yourself to a date. You can go to the cinema or a restaurant, indulge, enjoy a glass of wine, photograph, walk around, be a tourist in your home city, travel further on, take on anything new, be it a hobby or a new cuisine, you don’t have to ask anybody else is it “okay” you do this or that.

There’s no limitations in being alone. As long as you stay even vaguely sane, you can lay a weekend in bed without lifting a finger or go through old paperwork for hours without disturbances. You can indeed write that novel you always were meaning to or you can live from impulse to an another.

Don’t get me wrong. I see that loneliness is a bigger health hazard in Scandinavia than for example obesity might be. But being alone doesn’t mean that you have to actively focus on how alone you are. When you are alone, you can create your own world, be it whatever the kind you want it to be.

When alone, the possibilities on what to do and what not to do are endless. It’s a huge strength to enjoy solitude and have healthy me-time. It’s necessary for anybody to have a conversation with yourself from time to time, asking if you have done what you can for yourself.




A curvy girl


12_05 030_titles.jpg

Every time I have a chat with a girlfriend, I find myself in a conversation of body weight and dieting. It can be exhausting to see your friend squeeze their tummy rolls and talk about how they should hit the gym.

I used to give my best tips on losing weight: diet changes and drinking lots of water. I used to pitch in my thoughts on eating cake and make my friend laugh.

Now I’ve grown tired of this. Why should I be my in my ideal weight, -25 kg? Why should I worry about it and frown upon it? Especially when I hate working out. I don’t like sports. I don’t want to force myself in counting how many calories I can get rid of in a day.

I admit that this has tormented me for a while. I am a curvy girl now. I don’t fit in my old clothes. All XS size clothes piled up in the closet. I have to go and buy larger sizes and my pants feel like torture on my fat tummy.

But I have come into terms with it. I am happy with my husband and he is happy with me. It doesn’t really matter if I have a double-chin when i tilt my head or if my tummy is so round that some people think I am pregnant. I am not and have no intentions to ever be pregnant.

Sometimes it’s hurtful. But more than that, we dig our graves with our friends when we bash our bodies and eat cake. We complain and yet show no sign of even wanting a change. If you are not willing to change, why would you want to?

Personally I am learning to accept my size now. I have gone back and forth from almost being underweight to what I am now: round, squeezable, curvy and fat. I have scrolled around social media photographs of plus size models and the inspirational body positive women’s updates and come to the terms of my fragile ego and my mirror image: I don’t give a fcuk.

I love eating delicious foods. I binge on ice cream and eat a full bag of candy at one go. I don’t bother to drink water anymore that much and don’t even wash my make-up off in the evening. Why would I care so much about that perfect model sized body? Why would it define me that there would be almost next to none body fat on me?

I mean: I used to explain my complaints towards myself by society’s standards. I used to think especially when I was single that I would be more lovable if I was stick thin. I used to think fat would equal lazy. I used to think that when I see my body in the mirror, I cannot see me if I am not seeing super skinny legs and arms. I used to think a thin girl lives inside me and I just need to show her to the light.

I have been slightly overweight many times in my life after I quit ballet in my early teens. I have always managed to get rid of my kilos. For the first time ever, I feel I don’t have to actively pursue a different body type. I am prone to gaining weight. I smell chocolate and get fat.

But I don’t have to think about it anymore. I am happy, confident and can look like whatever and know my husband loves me – and even more so, I love myself. I have found strength in self-love and acceptance. They are no longer only big, unattainable concepts that are nice to speak about but impossible to live on by in real life.

I have found out that being a curvy girl is okay. It’s a look. It’s a hedonistic lifestyle I have always felt eager towards to and I have learned to accentuate my body’s strong points creating an image of myself I feel comfortable with.  This doesn’t mean I will want to gain more weight or that I would always look the same. When life changes again and when my life style changes with it, I might lose the extra kilos – or I might not. What may be, I am me. I am happy that I am me.

I hope everybody struggling with the chats with girlfriends about body, weight, workout, dieting and being yourself would find wisdom in wherever to be healthy, happy and content with who, what, how and why they are. I have found my peace in love, and have found out it’s not even the love coming from others but the light inside you that shines on through.


A domestic human

Domestic humans live to consume.

This update might be a bit off the chain, yo. I mean in other words that the topic is a bit conspicuous and provocative, and probably too intellectually challenging to most the average bloggers and blog readers. I don’t mean that it is to you because you are reading this post and you for sure are not the average.

This post is dedicated to the question of should we wake up from the average life illusion of consumerism and domesticity. In short, I ask for a revelation of the human soul to wake up, break the mold and think outside the box. Easier said than done.

I grew up to think a cultural revolution is around the corner. I certainly tried my best to live accordingly. Be it any text from your outfit to the ways you buy things, I thought the narration should change – and include those who don’t have the voice to speak up in the society.

How is this linked to the question of domestic humans? The domestic human lives in a world of constant choice in the consumerism, and does their chores like a routine. Some even more rebellious people I overheard talking about how humans should abolish the society and its thinking that we should be home builders, home owners and on a leash to our mortgage loans. We should learn from primitivism and open our hearts to the constant fluctuation of life – not the stock market.

I don’t necessarily rally to agree with these opinions but want to question myself as well. Primitivism doesn’t work for me, neither did anarchy. But from the viewpoint of these intellectual radicals the questions arise: should we learn to let go of what money can buy and return to a society of solidarity over profit? Is it even possible to opt out on a career, a car, fancy hobbies, maybe some kids (well, I ain’t having any!) and what comes with all that?

The stuff we buy.

Now days it has been made easier to make the green consumer choices. Ethical products  are more available than ever.  We have the say on whether we want to vegan or if we take a year off from real life and go backpacking. We can also choose fashionably a capsule wardrobe and quit mocking about with the latest trend of minimalism. These are some solutions I have found to fight the domestic human in me. Maybe you wouldn’t look for any solution and don’t see the problem – or maybe you think my thoughts on the matter belittle the grind.

Take it or leave it.

Of memory, identity and time


Days go by. I do my chores at home, go shop groceries and watch some TV. I translate old poetry for my amusement, watch a movie again and roll in the bed for hours unable to sleep. When I finally do, I sleep late: till the next afternoon.

The things I think about are trivial memories of my past. The way the street smelled of fruit in Krakow, how in Rome I talked to a man who I cried with and never learned his name, how in London I slept on the sidewalk and how these travels don’t mean anything to anybody else than myself (if I don’t write little stories about them, with proper narration). I remember the storm when I was 10, I remember my first cigarette years later, it was menthol PalMal. I remember when I was sad, angry, happy, lost, I remember everything like the memories would have been pierced to my soul.

These images cross my mind in my daily routines. I make coffee in the morning, one big cup with milk and sweetener, I look back in my diaries and emails for some inspiration. I see the questions of memory, identity and time rising up every time I go on about my day. But nothing is there to inspire me. The nothing in here means that those subjective emotions, sensations and atmospheres just stay with me. They won’t vanish. I wouldn’t be able to let go of them all. I look back in them and mindlessly change the water for the roses.

I am not fully here, present in tense, I look back in confusion and longing at the same time. The nostalgic mood hits me when an older tune plays on the radio. I remember that fight, that drunken night, that melody brings back what is long gone. I know things won’t change anymore that much: I have chosen this name, life, marriage, address and city. I have chosen this profession, these tattoos, these outfits to wear. But something in me still asks: what if I could have done something differently? What if there’s inspiration in those little images in my mind? What if they would mean something more in the end?

I hope they do. I hope the little girl in my poem finds my poetry and becomes happy again because of it. I hope the stiff literature researcher raises her eyebrows and smiles for a passing second at my work. I hope the reviewers won’t frown even when I do.

I want my insides to giggle again. I want to feel happy where I am, here, wake up early, make myself a healthy breakfast and wander down the street to a nice office in town. I want to make my family and loved ones proud of me and my achievements, not remember the smell of old newspaper ink and turpentine on canvas. I don’t want all those things back in my life – it would not only be impossible – but a horrible thing to say if I would. It is just that letting go of the past is so much harder when you relive it every day through writing. The inspiration has to be somewhere. I promise I looked everywhere already.

I live this life. Sometimes for example, a young girl buys oranges from the store. It makes me believe that she lives alone and can wake up in the morning saying: “I live the dream.” She’s powerful and independent and doesn’t apologize for anything from anybody. She runs her errands like they would be royal matters, buys more oranges or she might even buy stamps for her love letters. She is what I used to be. She is me, then, young. She is the moment where all your words and promises turn into responsibilities and life becomes a tad bit too real at times.

I smile at her politely and turn away. I drag the shopping (always the same: some Bonus Gold rolling tobacco, a twin-pack of Pepsi Max bottles and a multivitamin fruit juice) through the snow and reach the door for home. I unpack the shopping and turn on the TV, radio, take a hot shower, smoke on the balcony looking at the sunset and fill my life with noises made by other people to other people: through the screens, through the paper thin walls of this home, through the glass windows and to the street – and there’s no place for me in it all.
Not now. But when?

The job search


Many say the unemployed should do whatever job available. This might not be the kind of work that they have the education or passion for. Is it worth it?

I am from a back round where I have had to work on whatever available in my life. I have never had a 9-to-5 job (for more than internships and training programs). I have done freelance projects, volunteer projects and worked without a penny in my hand to fulfill my artistic passions. I have done office work and went to college and Universities abroad to learn more about the creative industries.

Nevertheless, I have not been able to snatch the dream job quite yet. Despite studying abroad, due to financial matters, I wasn’t able to graduate on either on the degrees I aimed for. I was there to hear the lectures and did even study acting (a skill that I would never in a million years thought I would need).

I have always managed somehow. There have been times I have been ashamed to apply for social welfare money and times that I didn’t have a penny to my name. I have still managed to somehow keep a roof over my head and feed myself something. I went to a career specialist/psychologist few years back and discussed my choices. The lady told me that looking at my resume, it is a bonus that I always have followed the same line of work and my interest, passion and love for the arts is portrayed clearly in my applications and CV.

She told me never to pursue a career only for the money. She said my CV proves the value of learning and doing only work related to the arts. I was astonished for her empathy and understanding – and even more so – for the advice she gave me. She explained that one pursuing only a career for the money wouldn’t live a happy life. Especially this goes to the creative type – who already knows what they want from their work life.

An another official in the employment office told me that after working in the cubicle for decades, she finally wants to do something for herself. She told me openly how she has hated her job since the day 1 and would do anything to turn back time. Her last (dying) wish would have been to have an art exhibition of her paintings. She started crying in front of me and told me that she only regretted the things she didn’t do in her life, and the clock was ticking.

Later on I never met her again. I assume she had to take sick leave from her office because her mental state wasn’t looking too stable. My other assumption is that she finally left the job to pursue her career as a painter.

With the latest updates on government laws on the unemployed (in Finland), I too am in danger of loosing some of the money I rely on surviving. These cuts are made if I don’t manage to find a training program, a school or a job for 18 hours a month. Easily, the first solution would be to apply for that job in hotel cleaning. But my heart doesn’t agree. I know I will find a way with less money if I was on my own but I also have to support my husband – and am torn between my options to go fight the windmills to get a job I actually deserve and doing my 18 hours like a chore to get some money to buy the groceries with.

I have also noticed that depending on your location, the work culture and the policies of government funded offices change. Back in my hometown I used to know every single soul in the creative industry that would even remotely ever been offering me work and in here, as just moved in, am still trying to understand why there are not even internships open – and above all, why wouldn’t the newspapers reply to my messages where I offer them a chance to hire me as a freelance writer. That’s the only real work I have ever had in my life, even if I have only done it from home.

As I am typing this blog post up, I have couple of applications going to local advertising agencies, I am applying to four different schools (from business to media) and am looking an internship in either TV production or art sales. I have also send my CV so many times the local papers, they must already be sick with it. With this all happening and on my mind, I am making a film and at least a book is being published next October. This requires some promotional performances at literature events around the country. On top of that I have to make a video application to a career mentoring center that might take me on to a training program for digital marketing and business.

I want to say that I am really trying. I am. In the depths of my heart I resent the idea of working only with money in my mind. I need a job that could take me to places and in where I can fulfill my passions in the world. I need a place where I want to go in the morning, or if working from home, that motivates me wake up in the morning. I need to have this job in order to live independently and support my miniature family of two.

So, if you are looking for a writer, drop me a line in the comment section or send me an email through the Contact page. Thank you, that’s all for today, good night.