That High
someone just asked me if i'm counting the days i've got left at work.
no. but good idea!
let's see: this week is probably my last "normal" week at work since both my bosses take off for about a month of vacation next week. then, there will be two weeks of "oh my god it's the 05-06 season and z is leaving and train and rush and ahh!!!" when they come back in september. then i'm going to fuck off.
so, to be more mathmatical, not counting the sick days, i've got... including today... 33.
that's my lucky number!
of course, i'll probably fall ill some and need to schedule some minor procedures (you know, have some "work" removed or something) over august. so likely i've only got about 30 days of work left. and a good month of that is the doldrums of august.
i've been super stressed out lately. trying to convince myself that i like my suit, which i don't, and failing that trying to accept the fact that i'm having a wedding freakout and there's nothing wrong with the suit. trying to keep the homelife together with my stress level and bartlebee's looming thesis monster and a serious lack of groceries.
anyone want to buy a sofa-couch? it's green.
i'm just starting to realize that not only am i quitting this job and getting married, but immediately afterwards i'm going to either box up or sell everything i've got and leave the country indefinitely with no real plan.
so, uh, sure. that's comforting.
we're talking about a goodbye party. maybe we'll rent out my friend mike's bar and invite EVERYONE?!?
i'm not so sure planning another party is a great idea right now...
no word on the film thing. i think this company is going to flake out. which is sort of good 'cause i don't need the added work and sort of bad because that means we lose a bunch of moolah.
so it goes.
33 days.
enjoy your days. because i hear that 28 days later everyone turns into a zombie.
About the goodbye throwdown, after many leavings the only answer is:
Make Someone Else Do It For You, telling you nothing at all about it but instead, after all their planning is complete, slipping into your suit pocket an embossed card of heavy weight paper and fine grains jealously housed in it's slick 2x1.5 dimensions with the time and date resplendent in a courier font. Reason demands this, you have connections - it can be a wedding gift from one of your pauper urchin friends. After all, they will ostensibly miss you.
Getting rid of all our furniture was almost as stressful as getting married - I wish you a heap of luck and forebearance.