Surplus Cats

Last week I was so frustrated and upset at work (over something that shouldn’t be much more than a blip on the anger-radar) and when I looked down at my desk there was a small puddle of blood. I thought I’d bit my tongue or torn my lip open, but when I went to restroom I realized my nose was bleeding.

I’ve been at my job just over 4 years. This week is the twice annual personal assessment time, where the HR department insists that we fill out these horrendous forms that have nothing to do with our jobs. Can you imagine asking someone in one of your company’s two dead-end positions about their career plan and to detail their progress? (Um. To maybe get paid for the extra workload that was dumped on me when they let go of the receptionist? Except, there is no progress to make? Does that count?)

So I submitted the damned form for the seventh time with completely honest answers, and Friday morning I told my boss that I would be happy to finish out the year so that the vacation/sick time balances out, but that I would not be coming back after the new year.

The rest of the day was a typical busy Friday, full of last minute reports and paper jams –but I’ve never felt so chill there. Walking on sunshine, indeed.

No, I have no idea what I’m going to do in January. I’m not even worried because whatever it is, it’ll beat this crap.

That’s what’s going on here. I’m hoping that this will shake me out of my depression/malaise and I’ll start writing more. (And finish my YA novel.) Here’s hopin’, right?

I keep having awesome dreams about potential futures. So far I’m totally into the one where Don and I buy a ranch and raise kittens. And the one where I volunteer to colonize the Moon and become the first spacebarista.

What? Can’t a kid dream?