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I always thought if I worked hard, I’d be employable. When I was twenty, it never occurred to me that by age 47 the entire world would consider me cleaned up. But it did. The “valuable” knowledge and the work-a-holic hours didn’t ensure me a place in the workforce. Unemployed for 6 months, I finally made a decision to just give the high name “Internet Mogul” to myself. At this point, that’s a complete fantasy; I’m not even remotely qualified to call myself that, however it sure sounds great. Superior to “workplace-reject-beggar.” Besides, I’ve faith in myself even when no-one else generally seems to. So I cleaned the softball-sized dirt bunny from my computer and typed “how to produce money on the Internet” in to Google. Holy Junk. A mountain of information was now at my fingertips. Too bad most of it wasn’t worth the energy it drew up. But a (with a capital M!) does not stop trying. So I plodded through, working the cons from the nonsense from the just plain crazy. Somehow or still another, I have to produce this work. The dog’s hungry…and therefore am I. The definition of “being hungry” changes with age. We are born, and this means, “give me milk so I can survive.” We reach adolescence and this means, “bring me a hot dogand lots of friends, position, times, great clothes, a hot car” We enter the work market and being hungry results in, “bring me challenges and riches, excitement way beyond the need for mere nourishment. Challenge my creative soul, reward me with costly toys, giving me concrete proof on the entire world stage” so I can flaunt my talents. Geez, it is embarrassing to acknowledge, but after my “distinguished” job, (translation: twenty-five years as a in the wage-slave wheel) the