I know. Neglectful.

So, I quit my job. That was the big hush-hush, don't-jinx-it news. Maybe it's not the hush-hush, don't-jinx-it news that everyone is hoping for, but hey! New job! New challenges! New title!

I know!

I'll be an assistant editor for an unnamed company, which means I'll actually use the English degree for professional gain and profit. If I could, I would line up every person who warned me off the major and perform a version of the "I Told You So" dance tailored to their specifications. For instance, my dad's version would go, "I told you so, I told you so, I-I-I told you so, that'll be fifty bucks, please" with some Cabbage Patching thrown in for good measure.

It's almost enough incentive to dig out the sheepskin, wipe off that questionable brown spot and frame it.

Almost.

Now I just need to survive my last week at the Journal without falling apart into a gooey puddle of panic. I've spent the last nine years here. Nine. Years. I don't know any other professional life.

Yeah, I'll get over it.

Labels: meta, workin' stiff