Tomorrow: yes. You’ll get my report of my survival and how many inches I’ve grown up on the scale of human experience. I have my letter to print. I honestly, honestly, even though I have page after page of 500 word entries documenting this time span between when my sister first informed me of the possibility of this job to my acceptance, can’t believe I’m doing this. Eight years of nights (intermittently, every now and then) of sitting it the dark, thinking, help me, Jesus. Or help me, me. Or help me, whatever is up there and meting out my fate. And now here we are, saying that the fate is changed. Something has stolen that fate away and it wasn’t me. Not that I’m trying to trumpet the Secret or the power of positive thinking, but it wasn’t anything beyond letting myself think that maybe, maybe, even if it’s not okay to go, I need to go and I’m leaving anyway.
Like maybe the path to okay is through this.
And it’s not like I’m worried about being let go on the spot or being ill-treated as a result of doing it. It’s just that moment of discomfort I’d be causing before understanding, before the mask of corporate analysis and acceptance slides on my boss’ face. It’s one of those situations that calls for 10-15 seconds of overwhelming courage and then you’re fine.
Other things, other current events…
This change is sort of kickstarting a bit of creativity. I’m hoping to change a little bit myself. Get a few outstanding tasks dealt with – mainly getting the washing machine fixed. It will get me back on track with handling the Great Clothes Dunes that build every few months in my room and I have to believe they’re at their apex right now because otherwise, the Hoarders people will be rapping at the door. No. It’s not that bad, it’s just, if I don’t start giving a shit, foreseeable that it could go that way. Mainly, I want the mental peace.
I have been thinking about January 2015. The new job will mean that I will have some extra downtime during the holidays (oh, my goodness!) and I have been thinking about diet, of course, but also, I need to read more. I am keenly aware that my linguistic ability has been eroded since I’ve left college (oh, eight years ago) and the only way to really help my writing is to read. So I’m wondering if I can commit to reading a book every two weeks. I’d like to suggest a book a week, but I think that’s just unlikely. Though I thought a post a day was incredibly ambitious and it happened because I made it happen. So. That idea’s floating out there.
Also, today, saw my cousins, aunts, and other relatives. All of them were supportive, and told me with rather objectivist, though kindly meant, tones, to take care of myself.
I mean to, in every which way I can.