Model Baby Model
I am pretty broke. That's just the reality right now. It's okay though. I'm not necessarily one who needs a whole lot to feel a whole lot.
The reason I'm broke is two-fold. The first fold is simple. I have chosen to pursue a career without much regard for what the pursuit looks like. Lots of swinging and missing. It's okay though. I've got this blog to keep me happy and sane for now. The career will come.
The second fold is a little more complex. Basically, my parents robbed me. This is mostly a joke, but I'll allow you, dear reader, to exercise judgment upon my elaboration.
When I was a baby, I was cute—much cuter than I am now. I had curly auburn hair, deep brown eyes, and smiled a lot more than I do nowadays. I was a model child and, more importantly, a baby model.
Little Tikes, the toy company, was looking for a child to model their new toy collection: a set of plastic tools and some plastic 'wood' boards. All together, the average 2-year-old could use the pieces to build themselves a plastic birdhouse. Riveting.
Among likely hundreds of applicants, I was selected as the model child.
I hammered, drilled, screwed, and giggled my way into thousands of homes around the world. It is, to date, my proudest achievement, and a height of fame I will likely never again reach.
Unfortunately, I've never seen a dollar from this project. My modeling career came to an abrupt halt afterwards. That was it—my moment in the limelight ripped away from me before my brain had even developed enough to remember it.
Devastating.
My parents, of course, did not take it and run. As a matter of fact, the more likely scenario is that it was stored away in an account to grow for my own college funds. Thanks, guys!
Robbed.
I was never afforded the opportunity to personally revel in the untold riches of my could-have-been modeling career. Who knows where I would be today, had I known the promise of the curly hair and smile.
There's a lot of tough shit goin' on right now. I'm currently listening to two older gents talk about the Inflation Reduction Act. Inflation's tough. So is listening to them talk about it.
At this point, the money's gonna be the money. I get by, man.
I've always thought something funny of the "money can't buy happiness" expression. Money buys comfort, for sure, but I've also already remarked on the animosity I feel towards that concept.
I'm grateful for the opportunity this blog affords for me to write without a concern for money. For a very long time—relatively—I set my hopes on turning a passion into a career, eventually manifesting a source of income.
When I first discovered my love for the craft, there wasn't even a consideration for monetizing it. However, once I graduated from school, I cornered myself by assuming the mentality that career must overcome passion as soon as possible. I lost love because I had the mindset that the only success or happiness I could secure through my writing was monetary.
I tried different outlets—poetry, short story, open letters to celebrities I'd never meet—all in hopes of selling just one and proving to myself that what I could do was good. The cycle of submission and rejection drained out of me any passion I had left, not for loss of love or desire, but for their misplacement.
Presently, I get to write for me. I was always allowed to do so, obviously. That opportunity was never taken from me—not by anyone but myself, that is. I have found the purest happiness from this new process. It's self-actuating and self-sustaining, as long as I give it the energy it necessitates and deserves.
So, today's burden is to keep doing the damn thing for the right reasons.
The two things that I do and know best, writing and baseball, can receive my best energy when I open my eyes to recognize the reason I'm doing them.
The modeling industry is a disgusting one, and I was there with all the wrong intentions. I'm so glad I had the prudence and proper discernment to leave.
That said, for any inquiries—like if you have a tool set and birdhouse that needs a model—you have my info.