Shit sandwiches

Part of what’s been so hard this past year is that I’ve decided to bet on myself because of leverage only I can really see.

I’ve had tangible accomplishments, sure, and more traditional opportunities still occasionally come my way, ones that my parents would probably love if I took, but something still nags at me that the path of greater resistance is one I want to take.

That is to say, I’m opting more for the shit sandwich than the fast food.


Old bread.

Bread I’ve made. That sort of thing.

I’m inclined to eat the shit sandwich.

That’s a concept that I’ve been thinking about a lot this week, and I’m hoping to better conceptualize what it means for my future, but it’s a comforting thought as I watch friends and acquaintances around me level up, with marriages, homes, promotions at work, what have you. Instead I’ve read a whole lot of books, taken more plane rides this year than I thought, and been in the same room with some really inspiring people — the kind I try to mirror.

So I’m fine with eating my own shit sandwich for now. I made it myself, and even though it tastes like shit, I made it, and it’s the sandwich for me.

I can only imagine how good the gourmet sandwich, with beautiful produce and artisanal bread, that I too, will be able to make in a decade, will taste.

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