Spent

Two days into it, and I can already tell this is going to be that period of my life where I actualized how much, and to what depths, that I hate myself.

Between adapting to normal-people office hours and being a salaried employee, I am feeling the plug that held everything in my heart dissolving. I may sound like a big baby, and I probably am a big baby, but again, I've pushed myself out of my comfort zone. I might as well have moved to Egypt. All of a sudden, I don't keep the same hours as my friends, and my evenings will be spent working on tedious drink special spreads and scrambling to fill white space. And if I'm lucky and plan well, which might take awhile, that white space might eventually have actual content.

But until then, the heart's dissolving. Broke for 3 weeks, and working non-stop until then. This always happens with a job change, and most people have savings for that sort of thing. I don't. I suppose as long as I can pay my rent, I'll be fine. I'd like electricity, but I'm not picky. I'd like some food, but I suppose I can deal. Done it before, but with each two-month period I live stressed for basic needs like this, it gets a little less fun.

However, the one amusing factoid about this job is that, no matter how many times they drag me into the office at 9am, I'm still writing everything when I get home. I can't write in an office. I tried; does not work. As soon as I get home, I make a pot of coffee and get to work like I've always done. Work and writing cannot be cross-bred, else I develop a burning hatred for the trade.