blessed are the easily amused

Monday, January 05, 2004

twenty aught four. it don't feel so different (aside from the fact that it's about eleventy-seven below zero). readers, i've been thinking about something. maybe you can help me out.

my job is a) not a real job, because i'm freelance, and b) not too bad, all things considered. it offers the shimmering chance (or illusion thereof) of unbelievably cool contracts around the next bend. like working on a documentary in argentina, or proofreading stories the grandkids will never believe.

i could keep on staggering toward the oasis/mirage while my throat constricts and i consider drinking my own urine and visions appear of me as an old lady savouring the crusty dregs from a can of whiskas...

or i could attempt to get the real job that will give me twice my usual income, a crappy northern town, no creativity, no argentina, and will be a dimly remembered dream.

for god's sake, tell me what to do. i'm doing the chicken dance on the edge of a knife.


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