O Sweet and Merciful Jobs Creator, grant me the strength to rise at a non-shameful hour.

Be the hand that guides my deodorant, the loofah that cleanses my darkest areas. Trick me into believing I will have a face-to-face conversation with someone, anyone I know.

Let my sweatpants’ stains speak more to the battles I’ve won than the snack-like meals I’ve bolted down.

Deliver the Good Gigs to my inbox. “Good” as in paying. Those high profile stints that fill me with pride. If I cannot have all of these things, please err on the side of pay.

When your Wise Freelance Managers beckon, assist me in decoding their cryptic emails. I get it. I have signed N.D.A.’s. But it is difficult to tell if a “cool tech client who’s [sic] name I can’t mention” is actually a cool tech client, or TD Ameritrade. What exactly is an “entertainment product targeting millennials,” aside from everything new in this world? Lend me your Third Eye before I accept the job.

Insofar as the words I speak aloud most days are to my cat, dust bunnies, barista, Obamacare representative, Walmart greeter, or worried parents, let my conference calls resound with witty banter. Let the briefs be clear. Let the feedback make sense. Mitigate awkward silences, disappointed voices and moments like in Citizen Kane where everyone yells stuff at the same time. Remind me to press mute when it needs to be pressed.

Should we Skype, make it so my hair looks like something other than a rogue shard of a Frank Gehry building.

One more thing about the pay. Assist me in negotiating the rate I deserve. Allow for rate negotiations, period. Help me get better at this crucial step. Demanding a fair rate makes me feel vulnerable. I don’t know why. It probably has something to do with my parents.

If you make the Good Gigs rain, let them not pour. Why is there radio silence for months upon end, and then seven requests blitz in at 6:34 PM on a random Friday? Could you hire an economist to explain this phenomenon?

Help my passion project get Kickstarted. My novel to write itself. My sketch comedy film to magically appear on every screen ever. Remind me daily why I chose to become a freelancer — so that I may do the work I love — even though my full-timer friends seem to be rising through the ranks, while I enjoy frequent naps and visiting the supermarket when the only other people there are elderly.

One final ask about the money and then I’ll be done. Let the payment arrive in a timely fashion. Don’t give me this “Net-60” crap. Don’t give me this “checks are still being cut” nonsense. What are they being cut from? Obsidian?

Given that the freelancer’s path is dark, and thorny with treacherous LinkedIn requests, please make me shine. Not by virtue of my unwashed skin and hair, but with the inner light of someone who has his or her shit together.

Help me pretend that freelancing is a sustainable career choice and not the fast track to driving myself insane.

My benefits, as you know, are not comprehensive, and all the good therapists are out-of-network.

Sign of the dollar.