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I think that there are two main things worth building in life, not as ultimate life goals, but as valuable waypoints to whatever goals you may have. Those two things are an amazing group of friends and enough money to survive for a long time.
To some people, mostly those who have already done it, that sounds easy and obvious. Others will have done one, but not the other, and only one seems difficult. And to those who haven't achieved either yet, maybe both sound difficult.
But regardless of how easy or difficult these things seem, maybe we can all agree that they're possible and helpful. After all, plenty of other people have done these things already, and don't they seem to be benefiting from them?
Why these two things? Because they're universally beneficial and within reach of anyone. It's not often you can prescribe something universally. On the other hand, there's no simple answer as to how to get them. Each one relies heavily on our individuality.
Some cities I love because they're full of things I like to do. Tokyo, Shanghai, and Budapest, for example. Others I love because of how they feel, but I don't always know what to do with myself there. Amsterdam is one of those cities. I love walking along the canals, I love seeing people biking, and I love the great art, but those things don't necessarily fill my days.
This morning my friends were going to the museums. Great choice, but I'd been to the Rijks and Van Gogh museums recently and wasn't particularly excited see the modern art museum. Most western European countries don't have much for tea, but I figured I'd take a shot in the dark and see if there was anywhere I could go sit and have some nice tea while writing or pondering my future.
One place stood out: Formocha. It wasn't clear whether it was actually a tea house or somewhere that just sold tea, but it would be a nice one-mile walk along the canals regardless.
The sun was out, which I noticed only because I hadn't seen it the whole time we were in Budapest. I walked along the sunny side of the canals, enjoying seeing the drawbridges and houseboats. But when I arrived at Formocha, it was closed.
When I hit them up for blog post ideas, my friends say that I should write posts about how I decide what to do next. I'm not sure if it's because they think I make good decisions when faced with the question, or because my choices are so bizarre that they require explanation.
I don't feel like my decision-making process is so unusual that it necessitates a post, but sometimes it's the things most obvious to us that are most interesting to others. My friend Leo is a dad every day of his life, but I find each parenting decision he has to make fascinating.
What to do next is a question that has to be answered constantly, both in the short term and the long term. What big project should I tackle next? What should I work on this week? What should I make for breakfast?
To further complicate things, each question has nearly unlimited possible choices. Should I do another startup? Become an artist? Join the circus? These tend to be my favorite decisions to make, though-- those that combine imperfect information with possibility trees that can't fully be analyzed.
My natural instinct to procrastinate is about as strong as natural inclinations get. Back in school, major papers were often done on a tiny laptop the period before they were due. I'd then tell the teacher my printer didn't work, and take my floppy disk to the library and print it out.
It's tempting to say that, just like early birds and night owls, there are two equally effective types of people. Some, like me, just work well under pressure and get their best work done that way. Others feel better when they get things done early.
Tempting, but I don't think it's true. Procrastination is worse, and people who procrastinate have a fundamental flaw that ought to be overcome.
For most things, I don't procrastinate anymore. I just don't have the time. My todo list is longer than the day, so things have to be done constantly. I guess in the right environment, many problems are solved automatically.
As I mentioned in other posts, I've bought a place in Vegas and have officially moved there (although I still spend a lot of my time traveling). Living in Vegas is a weird sort of loophole that most people probably aren't even aware of, so I figured I'd talk about why I decided to do it, and the unique advantages that Vegas presents.
If you work independently or remotely, Vegas is very likely to be a place you should consider moving. If doing so would require you to find a job, Vegas is probably not for you. The job market here is terrible, which is part of why this opportunity exists. That barrier is suppressing demand for housing.
The biggest reason to consider Vegas is the very low cost of living. There's no state income tax, and housing is cheap. Ridiculously cheap. My place would have cost approximately twenty-two times as much if I had bought it in San Francisco. Thats crazy! I bought a 1000 square foot place for under $45,000.
The thing that makes this amazing is the location. My place is six minutes from the airport, eight minutes to the center of the strip, twelve minutes from downtown, and five from Chipotle.
I'm fascinated by the attitudes of high-level professional fighters. It's such a strange job. Two people spend months preparing for a fifteen minute event, and one of them must lose. This weekend I'll be watching Ronda Rousey and Cat Zingano fight, both of whom are undefeated. One of them, probably Cat, will lose that designation.
Usually when you're doing your work, it's just a matter of being good enough to succeed. Half the office doesn't fail; most do good work and continue. But fighters have to have this very strange mentality where they accept that they may lose, but have to simultaneously delude themselves into believing it's impossible.
In interviews, you hear them talk about how everything they've been doing has been leading up to this single fight. You hear them talk about their training and their gameplans. For a lot of them, you get the impression that they believe that they are special. Maybe not in a cosmic sense, but that they are destined to win due to their preparation, their training, and the arc of their life story.
I'm not sure that you can be a successful professional fighter without some level of this attitude. I think you have to see your path paved with capital W's, and disregard the fact that each one of them produces a big L on someone else's record. And I wonder if this attitude is one that us non-fighters should adopt as well.
The other day I thought about getting a job in the most abstract sense. I thought: what would it be like if I just turned one hundred eighty degrees and got a job. The idea is literally repulsive to me, but I make myself think these things once in a while, just to check in; once in a rare while the answer surprises me.
No surprise this time, though. I definitely don't want a job. I thought of a few positives, but the negatives stack up so quickly for me. The biggest negative, the one that really keeps me from doing it, is the idea of having to be accountable to someone else for many of my waking hours. It's really a foreign and ugly idea.
Right now I'm in Maui. It's sunny, and the temperature is in the low eighties. I know this because I checked on my phone, not because I'm outside. My friends are hiking a lava field and going to a beach, but I'm on my laptop working. I made the decision to stay in because I thought about a hike in paradise and I thought about debugging Cruise Sheet, and I was more excited about Cruise Sheet.
I'm not averse to work or offices or coworkers or responsibility. I'm averse to obligating my time.
I got into a tuktuk in Chiang Mai to meet my friends for dinner. A tuktuk is a motorcycle with a built in passenger cart behind the driver, which serves as a taxi, but doesn't have a meter. You negotiate the price up front to avoid getting hit with a big surprise when you arrive.
In broken Thai, I asked the driver how much the ride would cost. He thought for a long time and said 150 baht. I countered at 120 baht and he accepted.
How much is the twenty minute ride worth? I'd probably pay eight or ten bucks. I'm only here a limited amount of time, the restaurant sounded really cool, and I'd been cooped up on my computer all day.
His opening offer was $4.50, and I countered at $3.60. A local would have paid something like $3, and I could have gotten it there if I'd been willing to argue for a couple minutes.
Stepping back from Sett has left a lot of room for me to reflect. What went wrong? Of those things that went wrong, which were avoidable, or will at least be avoidable in the future? Two big things always surface, the first of which I'll talk about today.
When Sett started out, I spent most of my time innovating, imagining, making decisions, and building. The building was a very specific sort of building-- the kind where you're going a hundred miles and hour, shooting for 80% perfect. Something out of nothing, not perfection out of something.
By the end of Sett, I was spending my day programming and dealing with customer support. We were servicing our technical debt, meaning I was filling in that last 20% of polish that we had left the first time around. On top of those things, I was trying to figure out how to get us making money.
The biggest difference in these duties is something that maybe only I, or close friends, could spot. I'm really good at the first group, and pretty bad at the second group.
The boat we keep at the island is named the SS Hassle. The process for buying it involved punching a hole in the side of it, patching that hole, buying a new motor because the first one stopped working, sleeping in the car for two nights because the new motor didn't work either, and manually moving the boat a few hundred feet by sliding it over wood. Until that moment of pure euphoria, when we finally got it running, we lived in a world of frustration.
Since then, it's run perfectly. We've used it to cross the harbor a few dozen times and, thanks to our neighbor fixing it up for us, it starts on the first pull every time. It's deep and wide, so we can carry plenty of people or almost a thousand pounds of concrete (three times, in case you're wondering).
I remember how frustrating it was trying to get the thing working, but only in a foggy third-person sort of way. My only real emotion associated with it is amusement, thinking about the comedy of errors that was our lives for three days.
When I think about the boat now, that whole episode is just a footnote. Mostly I think about how much I like our boat and how glad I am to have it.