Being your own cheerleader is really hard sometimes. Since leaving an undeniably hellish dayjob for the fancy-free, whimsical, sunlit fields of freelance work that has been the most difficult thing to actually do successfully. Being responsible, being professional, working my ass off? Not a problem. Staying hopeful that everything is going to turn out? That is tough.
This is one of those times. I know that I haven’t written a proper blog post in ages, but I just haven’t had the heart. Somewhere along the way, my inner cheerleader turned into a zombie. When I really need a pick-me-up, she shambles out with her mouldy pompoms and untied shoes and says “go team, rah” in a rusty, phlegm-clogged voice. She doesn’t turn cartwheels anymore (which is probably a good thing, as the pants underneath the cheerleading skirt have definitely seen better days). She’s lost a couple of fingers and the lid from one eye, but she still comes out to do her best before slinking away in embarrassment. I can’t complain, though. Who am I to point a finger at the broken and tattered?
We’re all of us lost things, at one time or another.