10 Things Only The Rich Can Afford

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I wasn’t the most privileged kid growing up.

I wrote about this in a previous post, some time ago, about how I was glad I had grown up poor (https://dreamerrambling.wordpress.com/2013/12/09/im-glad-i-grew-up-poor/) because it had made be a more independent and resourceful person with a better view on money.

Today, as I was fondling a gift from one of my friends, it struck my fancy to write a post about items only the rich can afford. In other words, superfluities, stuff that isn’t needed for survival. And might I just add that I realize that I am privileged, growing up in a first world country, and that my idea of poverty is probably the epitome of wealth in some other country. It’s all relative and I fully appreciate and understand that. This is just my point of view based off of my own life experiences. Anyway, enough rambling. Let’s get into it, shall we?

1. Scented Candles. Golly gosh. When I was young, I was just glad that we had enough money to pay the electricity bills so I could read at night. But candles? Candles that smelt nice and were around twenty quid a pop for the good ones? What do I look like, a millionaire? The first time I ever owned one of these was when I was sixteen and it was given to my mother from her wealthy friend as a present. Let’s just say, my sister and I treated it as a deity and fought over the right to light it.

2. Hygiene luxuries. Just all those fancy creams and bath salts and bath bombs and lotions sold in those Bath and Body Works shops in the US with all these different scents and colors and brands. One for your feet, your hair, your body, your ears. As a kid, my idea of ‘pampering’ was a bar of plain soup and a discounted $1 shampoo.

3. Fancy Christmas tree decorations. Have you ever seen how elaborate those things can get? And how expensive? At Christmas, we were lucky to get a tree and a couple of baubles from the dollar store. I remember picking out a 12 pack of cheap baubles for $0.75 cents after the jolly season was over for the next Christmas.

4. Bed decorations. You know what I’m talking about. The matching pillow case, blanket, sheets. The pretty plush pillows in the shapes of hearts or whatever. Some huge soft toys to boot. My pillow and blanket were always mismatched and I kept using them even after they became ragged and had holes. I had one soft toy and its plastic eye was falling out.

5. Designer clothes. Need I say more?

6. Holidays. You’re going on holiday? Well, that’s all fine and dandy but, hm, let’s think about this for a second…if you’re on holiday, that means you’re not working right? And spending hard-earned cash? HOW ARE WE GOING TO PAY THE RENT? No, no, I don’t think we’re going to win the lottery, but thanks for your input.

7. Visits to the cinema. Psssh, you say, it’s just the movies! It’s what, like, fifteen bucks a ticket? What do you mean, you can’t come? Everyone’s going, it’s the coolest, latest film with all these buff dudes and sexy chicks. Well, I’m very sorry but I’m saving up money for school excursions this year. I don’t want to be the kid that stays behind in class doing work while everyone else is off gamboling at the museum. Besides, I like museums better than cinemas. Sue me.

8. Any new gadget-y fandangles.  Yes, I still need to press actual buttons on my phone. No, it’s not touchscreen. No, my TV is not wafer thin and stuck to the wall, it’s hefty and you need to give it a couple of good thumps if the people on screen start being sawed in half by jerky static lines. What? What the hell is an iPhone?

9. Eating out. I’m looking at you, coffee. It’s just cheaper to make meals from scratch at home. I was that kid who, while hanging out with friends at the mall, bought nothing from the stores and sipped water from my own bottle and had a nice sandwich prepared with lots of love by my mother. I never bought coffee, tea or any other beverage. No Starbucks for this gal.

10. Jewelry. When I say jewelry, I mean the real stuff, none of those cheap, jangling, costume jewelry you can get at Forever 21 or something. Like, real silver and gold and gemstones. I swear to god, aren’t those reserved for royalty?

 

Well, that’s it for now. I’d love to hear from any of you, if you have any more ideas for this list.

I’d just like to say that even though I was highly sarcastic in this post, I don’t have anything against ‘privileged’ people.

I wrote this post for the heck of it, because it was fun to write.

And in the hope that perhaps it might have made you take a look at the luxuries in your house right now and wonder if all of it is really necessary.

Until next time.

-Dreamerrambling

 

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INFP Careers

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**If any of you who read my blog or are just stumbling across it are needing any life advice or guidance, especially if you are sensitive, introverted or a dreamer and feels a little lost in this cold world, please send your Skype username to dreamerrambling@hotmail.com. Though I can’t guarantee I can speak with everyone, I will try my best. These sessions will be free, as I’m just going to be practicing my life coaching skills and developing my own techniques and learning how to talk and counsel people. Thank you for helping me practice and taking me a step further on this new little journey of mine, and I hope that I can help you in the process too. Please no spam: I don’t want to find myself contacting any creepy people, so it’d be good to send a message along with your username telling me a little about yourself. Thanks. Keep dreaming.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an INFP (Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling & Perceiving) in possession of a conventional occupation must be dissatisfied with their life.

Okay. That may be an exaggeration. Perhaps you’re an INFP reading this who is perfectly content with your job and life, and to that I say, kudos to you. I envy you from the bottom of my heart because you have achieved something which I feel I will never attain.

After surfing through the internet and wasting my life for an hour today, I came across many plaintive posts in various forums from INFPs who were lamenting their lot in life, in having so wayward and unconventional a personality that it precludes them from finding a job that they like. My heart fingered out waves of sympathy from my chest through the computer and across cyberspace, in a futile effort at commiseration with these gentle, creative and lost souls.

Choosing a career is the bane of my existence as an INFP. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not a lazy person. Well, I do procrastinate excessively but I don’t want to be one of those indolent people who laze around on their couches all day watching television and living on welfare because they’re not bothered to get off their keister and do something with their lives.

I want to contribute to society. I want to help humanity. I want to play my part. I want to make my life meaningful.

But it is just so difficult to find a career or job that would be fulfilling. I feel like Sisyphus pushing that massive boulder up the hill every time I contemplate the issue. The thing is, many of the occupations adored by INFPs are few and far between, hard to get into and even harder to make a living at. I’m talking about writers, artists, film directors – you get the drift. I can think of no better personality type suited to the stereotype of the starving artist. But those jobs can’t put money on the table, can they?

Here’s where the trouble starts. I am the epitome of paradox and have a love-hate relationship when it comes to writing and money.

I know there are many writers who are making a decent living out there, whether through journalism or freelance or whatever. But I am so riddled with low self-esteem and bereft of belief in my own abilities that I don’t think I could possibly pursue a career as a writer, my ultimate dream. Why? First, because I believe that I don’t have any talent when it comes to writing, that there are scores of more brilliant literate folks across the globe that can do the job better than me. This self-doubt gnaws at me everyday. Two, because I come from a low-income background and have my mother to support. I’m not fortunate enough to have parents I can depend upon for fiscal means. I need money. Without the sense of security (and by security, I mean knowing that I won’t starve and be sleeping on a flea-ridden bed in a run-down house), I feel like a ship that hasn’t been moored, just sailing off to goodness knows where across the turbulent seas. And pursuing writing? It’s too much of a plunge, a risk. I’m too much of a coward. I don’t want to be poor, I don’t want to be homeless and live on the streets, I want to provide for my family and writing seems like a frivolous hobby that sucks away time better spent on churning out dollars.

At the same time, my idealized brain yearns to give myself fully to the craft. To become a starving artist and to hell with everything and everyone else. But even I know that’s not realistic and its selfish. Then there’s the fact that I don’t give a damn about the luxuries that money can provide. All I need to survive is a roof over my head (preferably one which I own, I like the thought of having my own place rather than renting a dwelling for all eternity), enough money to cover the basic amenities such as food, water and electricity, a mountain of books, a laptop and an internet connection.

This post was meant to be logical and cohesive but its just turned into a puerile ramble, as it always does. I’m just trying to say that I’m so lost in life right now. I realize that society needs accountants, lawyers, businessmen, doctors and that when it comes to survival the creators of art are kicked to the curb. But I know, deep inside my heart, that I have something to offer. INFPs are sensitive, compassionate, full of warmth, see the deep truths in life, are creative, good at inspiring people and bringing their own kind of magic to the world. But we’re just fragile faeries gobbled up by the bugs of society. I feel worthless because I’m not interested in the hard sciences that make planes fly and bring water to our homes. I’m interested in the imagination, the wonders of the mind and the transcendence that art can facilitate.

I want a job that’s meaningful.

I want a job that has minimal social interaction, preferably one-on-one.

I want a job where I can utilize my creativity.

I want a job that requires sensitivity and compassion.

Surely there must be some job out there that could be half-way perfect? Surely my abilities aren’t worthless and the only path in my life is to become a philosopher who drugs themselves to death or an artist who claws through life of poverty. Surely there must be some job out there for introverted, creative and sensitive people.

Surely?

Writing Is Not Romantic

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For the past few days or weeks (with my scatterbrain I’ve kind of lost track)…I’ve been writing a minimum of a thousand words per day or more.

Now, I’m like the greatest procrastinator in the history of mankind and in the past my writing has always been sporadic and inspiration-of-the-moment kind of thing. 

But I love writing and I want to create art that can touch the lives of other people and bring my little slice of beauty to the world so…I write. I try to catch and pull down the vapor wisps of my imagination and condense them into words even if it takes forever to fill a page.

Being an extreme idealist, it’s no surprise that I romanticized writing before I embarked on my writing ‘regime’. I imagined myself as a starving artist going through great suffering for the sake of art as time went by. Ah! Glorious! Dying for a worthy cause has always seemed so romantic to me.

I imagined myself creating worlds at my fingertips, worlds that other people could get a peep into by opening the book and using it as a literary window.

I imagined myself publishing short stories that would be scattered like jewels amongst many publications and chipped away out of the earth of other stories by voracious readers.

I whirled away upon fantasies. Realize that until now I haven’t received any commendation, review or publication of a single of my writing, unless you count the praise of my previous English teachers, which doesn’t count. Yet I was floating on cloud nine, transported there by my stupid shimmery idealistic brain of mine.

And then I crashed.

How?

Do you need to ask? I sat down and I wrote. And wrote. And edited. And read my edited work. And bawled and hated myself. It wasn’t just like ‘oh I have no ideas and I can’t seem to write well today and hate every single word I write’ sort of thing. It was more like, oh my god please kill me (not literally) my life has been a lie, I can’t write a single sentence properly let alone a short story I’m going to die without ever having published anything, with the golden seeds of my imaginings never having sprouted into anything tangible. Forget about a garden. I was trying to make a plant grow out of a itty bitty pot and failing.

 I still feel this way. You can’t imagine the depth of my…cringing when I reread my work. These pieces of writing didn’t deserve to be even peed upon by my friend’s dog. I’m a naturally critical person. Perfectionism, high standards, yeah, you get my drift. Also slightly neurotic. I felt I was talentless, boring, lackluster and would never make it when it comes to the world of prose. I didn’t have it. I was hopeless. Kinda melodramatic, but yeah.

This post isn’t going to have some sugar-drenched inspirational message. I still suck at writing. I am an absolute amateur, that’s the damn truth. Granted, I’ve hardly practiced at the craft but that’s my own fault and due to my own lack of discipline, which is just another blockage in my pathway to my writing dreams (there I go again, dreaming. Must stop. Stop thinking and start doing). Maybe I’ll die without (sob) having ejected any art from my soul into the world. It’s the reality. And it makes me really sad. My heart literally clenches inside my chest with pain when I think about it.

But I’m going to keep writing, even if it is simply for my own pleasure and no-one else in the world reads it because doing something is better than doing nothing even if it means I will fail in reaching my goal.

And that’s all I have to comfort myself with for now. Hope everyone else is having a better week than me.

 

-Dreamerrambling

 

Survival Kit Of A Dreamer

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Just to clarify, when I say dreamer, I mean someone who blatantly denies reality. You don’t know anyone like that? Well, I’m right here! And yes, this is meant to be humorous because I’m in the mood for humor and want to chase away the dark clouds that have been hanging over my thoughts for the past few weeks. I wrote a previous post on the survival kit of an introvert: https://dreamerrambling.wordpress.com/tag/introvert-survival-kit/ and it was fun to write, so I decided to do another one. So, without further ado!

1. A ton of books. Just, I don’t know, steal a library, do anything to get your hands on a mountain pile of them. There better be no depressing autobiographical books about death and despair, though. Just to be safe, stick to fiction only. And immerse yourself in it. Live in a makeshift dwelling constructed from the books which you consume. Never leave this dwelling. Or if you really have to, like to do work and earn this stupid thing called ‘money’, bring some of your treasures with you so you can escape into another world and life when you have a spare moment.

2. Zappy thing. I don’t know what they’re called, they like give this quick, little harmless electric shock when you touch them? Yeah? Get that. It will get rid of those horrid people that dare to interrupt you in the midst of a film or novel. Also, when someone starts telling you to grow up and spews something about life being hard and it being a dog eat dog world and to stick your head out of the clouds, use it. You’ll thank me later.  

3. Daydream eye mask. Just pop one of those things over your eyes and you are free to dream away, imagining yourself living different lives in beautiful, magic worlds.

4. A laptop. With countless movies downloaded onto it. Instant reality escape.

5.  Bottled dreams. You know that book the BFG (Big Friendly Giant)? And how he has these jars with which he catches dreams? Get a laboratory filled with dream jars so you can go away on adventures while you sleep. Or you could manufacture them using your own brain but that’s inconsistent, sometimes you have nightmares and dream about real life and real people, and we don’t want that, do we? What do you mean bottled dreams don’t exist? *uses the zappy thing*

6. Compliant family members or friends. Note: Not recommended for anyone over the age of fifteen. Get your family members and friends to play along with your imaginary worlds and situations. It will feel all the more real to you if people are going along with it rather than giving you weird looks.

7. A notebook and pen. So you can write down and create your own imaginary worlds and people.

8. Telescope. Can’t forget our trusty telescopes, can we? We are the navigators of the fantastical and what better way to enjoy yourself than looking up at celestial objects in the sky? They seem so far away…so mysterious and magical…and the shooting stars…

9. A microscope. Cause even the little critters are more fun to look at, am I right people? No, but on a more serious note, the little creatures are fascinating, an entire world exists under our very noses yet we hardly think about it. Makes you wonder what’s bigger than us and looks at us with a microscope…

I think I have a slight Peter Pan complex.

If you have any more to add, I’d love to hear from you in the comments below!