The Tryptophan haze has worn off.
I was sitting at my desk 6:05 this morning.
I'm putting in my two-week notice today. I've yet to type the resignation letter, but I've verbally notified everyone who needed notification. They've got no one to replace me, and finding someone to learn my job in the midst of holiday madness is going to be a bitch. I feel sorry for the drivers who are going to have their commissions all screwed up, but on the other hand, I can't help but feel a touch of smug satisfaction. My parents dug themselves one hell of a hole.
I got my check, and not only was I stiffed out of 8 hrs at $18/hr, I only got paid half a day for one day. Morons at corporate, thanks so much. It'll be reimbused on next check. Still, I'm starting to stress about Christmas. I think I'll be doing a lot of my shopping at Target, yo. I've started compiling my lists. I think I'm going to sit down tonight and start writing gift fics for those of you who have requested them.
I have to change all of my billing stuff (and pending BPAL orders!) over to my new address. That's going to be lovely. It's going to suck not to be around the corner from a post office, but I think I'll survive. I wish I could feel more than apathy. I'm having a hard time with that. I think I'm just worn down.
Maybe it's the season. Last year, I expected that I'd be coming home to someone at night. Breakfasts for dinner and trimming our first tree. I'm having a hard time with that not coming to pass. For all my talk of not being able to settle down, I think it's just a matter of needing to get something out of my system, because I've always been a relationship-oriented person. I figured that I'd be more... I don't know how to put it. Not settled, more like cemented. Safe? Comfortable? Something like that. That I would look forward to coming home every night because that would mean coming home to someone special. Instead, I get a new room with stark white paint. Empty rooms always feel a little tomb-like to me, they're so chilly. Needy, waiting to be filled, so intensely quiet and lonely. I'm tired of filling rooms, starting from scratch, moving months later and starting all over again. It's hard to explain it without sounding ungrateful-- as happy as I am for shelter and not living with my parents, it's not the same as a home of my own, a home of ours. I guess I just expected a different kind of new life.
This move is daunting. I've been avoiding packing, putting it off. Somewhere deep down, I know that it will be a good thing. Still, I hate that I'm moving. Again. And it's just me. Again. It feels like I'm admitting defeat. I wonder if I'm going to cry this time, too?
Well, I read Brokeback Mountain this week, and so I'll take some advice from there. If you can't fix it, you got no choice but to stand it.
I'm putting in my two-week notice today. I've yet to type the resignation letter, but I've verbally notified everyone who needed notification. They've got no one to replace me, and finding someone to learn my job in the midst of holiday madness is going to be a bitch. I feel sorry for the drivers who are going to have their commissions all screwed up, but on the other hand, I can't help but feel a touch of smug satisfaction. My parents dug themselves one hell of a hole.
I got my check, and not only was I stiffed out of 8 hrs at $18/hr, I only got paid half a day for one day. Morons at corporate, thanks so much. It'll be reimbused on next check. Still, I'm starting to stress about Christmas. I think I'll be doing a lot of my shopping at Target, yo. I've started compiling my lists. I think I'm going to sit down tonight and start writing gift fics for those of you who have requested them.
I have to change all of my billing stuff (and pending BPAL orders!) over to my new address. That's going to be lovely. It's going to suck not to be around the corner from a post office, but I think I'll survive. I wish I could feel more than apathy. I'm having a hard time with that. I think I'm just worn down.
Maybe it's the season. Last year, I expected that I'd be coming home to someone at night. Breakfasts for dinner and trimming our first tree. I'm having a hard time with that not coming to pass. For all my talk of not being able to settle down, I think it's just a matter of needing to get something out of my system, because I've always been a relationship-oriented person. I figured that I'd be more... I don't know how to put it. Not settled, more like cemented. Safe? Comfortable? Something like that. That I would look forward to coming home every night because that would mean coming home to someone special. Instead, I get a new room with stark white paint. Empty rooms always feel a little tomb-like to me, they're so chilly. Needy, waiting to be filled, so intensely quiet and lonely. I'm tired of filling rooms, starting from scratch, moving months later and starting all over again. It's hard to explain it without sounding ungrateful-- as happy as I am for shelter and not living with my parents, it's not the same as a home of my own, a home of ours. I guess I just expected a different kind of new life.
This move is daunting. I've been avoiding packing, putting it off. Somewhere deep down, I know that it will be a good thing. Still, I hate that I'm moving. Again. And it's just me. Again. It feels like I'm admitting defeat. I wonder if I'm going to cry this time, too?
Well, I read Brokeback Mountain this week, and so I'll take some advice from there. If you can't fix it, you got no choice but to stand it.