Hello Steemit, I'm Serste

Wow, this is gonna be stressful.

Less than two weeks ago I had to record a less-than-a-minute self presentation for a contest I won.

(Yes, you won a contest, incredible! Aren't you happy about it?)

Although I was extremely happy discovering my name in the winners' list, then it came the hard part of modern day's artists' life: the SELF-PROMOTION.

(...aaand here we go again! Why can't you just see the bright side of life? This kind of things are you best occasion to get people know you, and get enticed about your talent and brilliant personality, being able to truly appreciate your work! This is so millenial of you.)

The main problem I have with self-promotion (in everyone of its expressions, from taking a compliment to compile a curriculum vitae) is that I hate myself.

(add sad italian music here)

I hate myself so much that I've ignored my Life's Call for at least ten years, wasting my hungry young braincells in jobs I didn't like, diluting them in gallons of whiskey and nonsensical social interactions, suppressing them under a coat of self-indulgence.

Turned 30, my motto was (try to) not panic, while something in my chest was trying hard to escape.

After a long sequence of under-payed jobs in border-line contests (maybe I'll talk about hot dishes and cocaine-addicted costumers another time), I had reached the saturation point in which being a kitchen worker was no longer an option, so for he third time in my life I had signed up for my true dream job: the Data Etryist.

Yes, people in cubicles with a fine moquette under their feet.

A cubicle would be my only responsibility: no more apprentices to 'help learning' at my own expense, no more serpentine co-chefs to be constantly afraid of, no more anxiety about killing someone because your boss had bought again from the black fish market.

If you've ever been a Data Entryist, you already know how bad informed I was about the job.

In less than two months from the awkward welcome, my willing to live was half-sized.

I mean, I didn't even remember why I was punishing myself that much.

Probably the most long-lasting feeling after eight hours in a small room with 25 strangers is disgust.

Not for them, for us all.

At five point 45 in the evening I used to switch off, unable to go on in a task I didn't see the utility of, and just let my eyes wondering through the room, visualising the shimmering living tissue of human bacteria all over the place.

At six point zerofive my bus had left without me once again, the next one fortyfive minutes later, long trip to home, just eat and walk the dog, go to bed with no horizon to loose your thoughts into.

(Let's hope she's ready for the bright side now)

The original project was silly as all dreams should be: I was going to take this last under-payed job, but it would be something less life-threatening than Kitchen's Hell.

Office would be wonderful, thanks.

I would work for what it took to make 5000 euros to move myself and my two dogs in England, to try to make profit of my talents.

The image of Pino and Lola on an old car driven by a finally free me lasted, as told, two months.

My partner came in my life at the fifth month, on January 17, and saved me. He got pretty angry that I was wasting my life like that, and proposed to help me out.

Quite a prince, but he wasn't in a good shape too: he quit his job and I get back to Kitchen (I know, right?).