Back to Work

Yeah, okay, so the lovely respite from the man is over. I orientate for my new soul sucking minimum wage return to work tomorrow night. To say that I am not looking forward to it is probably as big an understatement as saying ‘Well, Zeppelins are slightly flammable’. I really am trying to look forward to it, but I know I am going to get screwed in a major way with whatever schedule they do decide to give me (which I don’t get until Tuesday night now). Yep, ridden like a My Little Pony at a seven year old’s birthday party.

So, I am trying desperately to enjoy my last day of freedom. Really, once you’ve tasted it, freedom is intoxicating. Having an open schedule makes you open for all kinds of things. It reminds you that time alone is priceless and thinking, really thinking, can require quiet moments to do so. I am also a little afraid that this will make it so I can’t do all the fun things I like doing –i.e. writing until 2am, being available for sisters/family when needed, finding time for my boyfriend, going out with my other friends, the list goes on and on.

Not that this is going to be heinous. I might really enjoy it. I would like to stop worrying about money. Honestly, I don’t worry too much about it, but not having any is a little trying on the old nerves. The flipside is that now I just get to worry about working. I know this is not going to be difficult work, but as the bottom rung again –that could mean all my nights and weekends have now been spoken for as I bend over and take it for money with a smile on my face. Ick.

Still I feel bad about complaining about it. I worked really hard to get a job and honestly lamenting a ‘be careful what you wish for’ is better than b*tching about not getting what I want (which I really hate). Plus, nothing says I have stopped looking for something that pays a little better. Nor does anything say that my books don’t blow up and make it so that is all I have to do. It’s gonna happen, mark my bloody words. Until then:

“Mommy, this pony won’t go faster, she thinks she’s some kind of writer. Giddy up, ya stupid pony, it’s my birthday!”