A Short True Story

I started a new job last week. It’s simple and it keeps me on my feet. It’s not the kind of job that makes your friends and family want brag about you, but after long months of feeling useless and dysthymic, it’s doing something. My co-workers talk shit about each other, have allegedly good drug hook ups, and I don’t have to worry about moderating how much I say fuck (a lot). It’s harder to tell whether people like you and it’s much more probable that they actually don’t.

One of my new colleagues asked me about my last job. It’s weird to talk about. When I say “my co-workers” I still refer to my old ones in my head. Until very recently I still said “we” to my boyfriend. Why would you quit a white collar job with serious cool/nerd cred? Too depressed. Frustrated with not feeling on the same page as my boss. It was getting harder to leave the apartment without breaking down and sobbing. I only say the first two things. I add “heh” because I add that to most sad sentences in front of people I don’t know well. Anyway, uh, I realized immediately after resigning that I was in love with my good work friend so there’s that. We’ve been together ever since.

“Aww, that’s a good story!” he says.

Yes, when you put it that way, it is.