Another Summer writing period finished, and tomorrow I embark on the final year of, to quote Oscar Santana, my douchebag thirties.
All apologies if I kind of seemed off-in-space on these. As I said, I really do wonder if a big part of what I was doing was because I was so miserable.
I just got off the phone with a recruiter trying to get me back in to where I was for the bad situation in Norfolk. I doubt I’ll have any opportunity, but that I’m even willing to consider it is evidence of how much I was fucked up.
Was it better than what I was dealing with the first round in the icebox? Yes. Was it good? Fuck no. But that there’s no do-not-consider note, and that I might reciprocate says a lot.
At the same time, I am more than satisfied with where I am, now.
What a change from last year.
And just as I started to rank things, I quit.
2015 I was broke.
2016 I was working like a dog, getting treated like shit, and my health was about to go off-the-rails. (My first hospital stay was in September of that year….)
2017 I was unemployed, after a few more unsuccessful months in the blast chiller.
2018, well, read some of what I’ve written this month, and you decide.
But I did it. All finished. Now time to celebrate some, I suppose.
Or watch John Brennan backing down from his treason claims as fast as he fucking can.
But Rachel Maddow will back them all up, so it’ll be okay.