Some musings
I had my exit interview today because the person in HR thought I was leaving in February.
Oh honey, you read my mind . . . if only that were the possible.
See, work is even more tense than usual. I apparently am leaving to spite people and to hurt their feelings. They're taking it personally.
Truly, I am that type of person. That I do things out of spite.
I've wanted to, but that's just not my style.
My father is dismayed at my moving, simply because I'm leaving my "cushy" job here.
Except he and my brother both revealed that they wouldn't have lasted as long as I have down here.
Yes, I suppose, in this economy I'm stupid for leaving my job and apartment.
But what use is a job and apartment if you don't like the job and you can't afford the apartment?
And that pretty much everything you care about is in one place? Wouldn't you go to the place? Don't I deserve to have some happiness?
Perhaps not. Perhaps I have to suffer more until I figure out what I want to do with my life.
I had the stupid thought the other day of going back for English, specifically Medieval and Renaissance . . . but tie it into art influences. I'd do a thesis or seven on how book covers and how art that is done for books has an influence on our perceptions of the book and how drawings in books make one like the story more . . .
But I'm digressing.
Few would read it.
I can just see Tennyson's Idylls of the King and Howard Pyle's various works . . . and the book covers of Darrell K. Sweet . . .
Ah, um, yes, anyways . . .
As I rode the bus to work this morning, I realized that I'm actually really okay with moving. That some part of me is excited and the reason I'm flipping out about having so many things due at the same time is that my mind is trying to get them all done all at once so I then can get time to speed up the harvest and teleport me out of this city.
I looked over my writing last night . . . I remember when I had potential. I just need time . . . but I'm afraid that I won't ever let myself have time. So many ideas, but I don't know how to write them . . . or more importantly, how to write them well.
Oh well . . .
Oh honey, you read my mind . . . if only that were the possible.
See, work is even more tense than usual. I apparently am leaving to spite people and to hurt their feelings. They're taking it personally.
Truly, I am that type of person. That I do things out of spite.
I've wanted to, but that's just not my style.
My father is dismayed at my moving, simply because I'm leaving my "cushy" job here.
Except he and my brother both revealed that they wouldn't have lasted as long as I have down here.
Yes, I suppose, in this economy I'm stupid for leaving my job and apartment.
But what use is a job and apartment if you don't like the job and you can't afford the apartment?
And that pretty much everything you care about is in one place? Wouldn't you go to the place? Don't I deserve to have some happiness?
Perhaps not. Perhaps I have to suffer more until I figure out what I want to do with my life.
I had the stupid thought the other day of going back for English, specifically Medieval and Renaissance . . . but tie it into art influences. I'd do a thesis or seven on how book covers and how art that is done for books has an influence on our perceptions of the book and how drawings in books make one like the story more . . .
But I'm digressing.
Few would read it.
I can just see Tennyson's Idylls of the King and Howard Pyle's various works . . . and the book covers of Darrell K. Sweet . . .
Ah, um, yes, anyways . . .
As I rode the bus to work this morning, I realized that I'm actually really okay with moving. That some part of me is excited and the reason I'm flipping out about having so many things due at the same time is that my mind is trying to get them all done all at once so I then can get time to speed up the harvest and teleport me out of this city.
I looked over my writing last night . . . I remember when I had potential. I just need time . . . but I'm afraid that I won't ever let myself have time. So many ideas, but I don't know how to write them . . . or more importantly, how to write them well.
Oh well . . .