I went to the gym this morning for the second time this week. One nice thing about having no job, and having paid a two-year membership to the gym upfront, is that I tend to work out more often. Not that I didn’t have a chance to before, with my ultra-intense schedule at the weekly rural newspaper and all, but it’s harder to will yourself up at the crack of dawn and get yourself on the treadmill than it is to roll out of bed at, say, 8:30, and go.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to start laying around the house in my pajamas or anything. 8:30 a.m. is a respectable hour to get up, especially when you spent your summer staying up til four, sometimes five in the morning, and even then sometimes the really, really loud album playing would just stay in the CD player and play all night, and then you’d wake up like maybe a few hours later and get ready for another day. I’m not saying I worked hard or anything, just that my body deserves a few nights of really deep, really good, really uninterupted by loud rock music sleep.

Point being, I think I’m going to get pretty awesomely toned. On the days when I don’t go to the gym and do some very minor, very easy resistance training, I’m going on long runs. I hope to attend one yoga class a week too, because yoga is good for the soul.

This morning I planned. I wanted to run a few errands after working out, as well as have lunch with my friend Jen. The gym isn’t that far away from my house - maybe 10 minutes - but it wouldn’t make sense to come home and shower, so I brought some clothes and shampoo and everything with me. I’d shower there, I figured, and get on my way. I’m such a thinker, honestly, someone should hire me. Before I get hired by a huge corporation to write on my blog for their entertainment. Starting salary: $1,000,000.

What happened though, is right when I got done with my workout and was ready to get on with it, I realized I’d forgotten a towel, and my gym doesn’t have towels for members, so I was stuck. I could either drive home and shower and risk getting on the couch and falling into a deep depression and maybe craving macaroni and cheese and then maybe giving into that craving OR I could just improvise. I chose the latter, because as stated above, I think about things. I’m dedicated to getting ahead in this world.

So I decided I’d take a quick shower and then just kind of shake off the water and towel dry, if I needed to, with this sweatshirt I’d packed. I could also use my gym clothes, I thought. My gym clothes which, by the way, were sweaty, as I’d just worked out in them. Oh, and it’s a rainy day, making the thought of not being able to get completely dry and then having to go out into the rain and humidity even less appealing. But I didn’t want to go home. So I took my shower and then squeezed the water out of my hair and brushed the water from my body and used the random pieces of clothing to do the rest. I was damp, at best, when I reached out of the shower stall to grab my underwear.

Despite the fact that I am normally less bold than the other women who frequent the locker room, I usually put on a towel, exit the shower stall, and then get dressed in the main area, at least. Because it’s stupid to try and get dressed right there in the steam caused by the shower you just took. And getting dressed when still partially wet is right up there with getting up before dawn to go look for Bald Eagles in the “Things I Don’t Like” department. I had no choice in this instance, however. What was I going to do? Drape my drawstring shorts round my bottom half and run like a maniac into the other room, dress quickly, and depart, trying to avoid stares? No way. Because the thing is I’d receive less stares if I just walked out stark naked. Really. And, in fact, when reaching out blindly to grab my clothes from my Jansport, hanging just outside the shower stall, I caught a glimpse of an older lady right across from me showering, nude of course, with the shower curtain open. OPEN. I don’t know. It had the capacity to be closed, surely, but she just didn’t care. On her shower hook hung a lovely, forest green, soft towel. As I stood there tugging my freshly-laundered and therefore extra tight jeans on over my not-quite-dry thighs I thought about that towel and how that woman, that naked, naked woman, probably wouldn’t have even minded if I’d asked to borrow it because, after all, she didn’t mind if I had a good close look at her privates.

When I’d finally accomplished the great feat of getting my clothes on and running my fingers through my tangled hair (I also forgot a brush) I stepped out of the shower, placed my sopping gym clothes in my backpack and got ready to leave when my nude friend spoke to me. “Did you have any trouble with the shower temperature?” she asked, facing forward, hands over her head massaging her sudsy hair, as friendly as could be. What was I supposed to do? Look? Look at her breasts? Look into her eyes? Avert my eyes? Run away? Tell her she had a nice body for her age? I paused a second and in that very loaded second realized I was being a little bit ridiculous. I was the one who’d just dried off with my dirty gym clothes. Her showering sans-curtain suddenly seemed, without doubt, the less crazy thing one could do while attempting to get clean after a nice workout.

So I turned towards her, just like this was a normal interchange between two clothed people and said, “Yes, actually. I had trouble getting the water at a moderate temperature, so I took a kind of cold shower.” She laughed and said that that was better than a scalding one, and I laughed and agreed, and then told her “good luck” and departed, into the rainy afternoon.

Later, after lunch and saying goodbye to Jen, I went to use the bathroom in the restaurant where we’d met. Upon entering, I heard a girl’s voice coming from one of the stalls. Since no one else was in there, I wondered who she was speaking to, then realized she was talking - and not just talking, but loudly gossiping - to her friend while she was on the toilet. Right on it. I heard it flush and she exited, still on the phone, still loud, without a glance in my direction.

I realize this is the age of the the cell phone and other miraculous technologies, but I’m still astounded - maybe my attitude is even old-fashioned - at the amount and circumstances in which people use them. If you’re having a nice dinner, I say turn it off. And if you’re in the bathroom stall, please, turn it off. Not only for your friend, but for the world. It’s just weird. And detracts from the level of decency you project. Manners. From saying thank you right on down to not talking on your cell phone in the bathroom stall and not even feeling the slightest big ashamed of that. I thought, then, of my friend in the shower from earlier that day and how admirable her level of shamelessness was compared to this. She’d at least acknowledged my existence. And what’s more, was very nice. One day maybe I’ll bare my body with as much pride, but for the present, I’ll at least be nice to strangers.

I know some of you must be thinking that I’ve dropped my cell phone in the toilet - more than once - and isn’t that just as bad? I assure you, my phone’s association with the toilet was a result of my being clumsy and careless with expensive devices, and not because I was trying to actually have a conversation in there. I may put the thing in my back pocket of my jeans, like an idiot, but hey, I do draw the line somewhere.

Thanks to my wonderful mother-in-law, Mina is even cuter than normal. As you may have noticed, she’s not too keen on her princess outfit, leprechaun suit or sundress. But in this bandana? She’s, like, prancing everywhere. And posing for the camera. And being given mad amounts of treats for being so adorable. She knows how to get what she wants.

I enjoy a good book. I enjoy a good book before drifting off to sleep at night or when I’m eating my lunch or when I just need a break from the endless task that is trying to make something of myself. And since this period of my life is lacking structure, one might say, I decided I might as well make the most of it by reading something great.

I remember the summer I read War and Peace and I remember when I read Anna Karenina and how much I loved the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. How well I remember reading The Nicomachean Ethics my freshman year of college and being astounded by Aristotle’s sense of lasting practical wisdom. Moderation, moderation.

I remember these great works because they were, you know, great. Both in reputation and in content. So recently I decided to try and pick up something modern, instead, and started in on David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest.

I want to love it. I want to get it, I swear, I do. But all I think when I read this highly-regarded novel is, Jesus, what an asshole. In fact, just the above linked desciption of the book gives me a headache. What was Wallace out to accomplish, really, besides giving people a headache? Fame? I guess so. Money? Probably.

But what I actually think he was after, was having stuff like this follow in the wake of his great American novel, a.k.a. his stream-of-conciousness, pain-inducing, very famous headache book. Which is really just a showcase of his vocabulary. Come on! A study guide!? You know he loves that.

Before you go questioning my opinion, which you certainly have the right to do, please remember that I was an English major, and whether or not I should like this novel isn’t the point, but instead that I think I have the credentials to criticize, at least, and what is even more the point is that, to be honest, I don’t want to read it anymore. I don’t want to look at it.

To protect my pride I probably will finish Infinite Jest someday, because I started it and I hate not finishing books I’ve started (except for One Hundred Years of Solitude, which, I swear to you, I’ve tried to get through, well, one hundred times. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it is just a really boring piece of crap, but I’ve heard otherwise - from the critics and all). But in the meantime I’d like to try my hand at something else. Something meaningful and important. Maybe philosophy or a memoir or a novel that will teach me history while telling a great story. Maybe Proust or Faulkner or Kant.

Suggestions? I’m excited to get started.

Buffalino arrived Friday, at my house, emerged from their packed tour van and laid on my floor, in my air conditioning, delcaring they were very happy to be there. I was happy, too. When your little brother is in a band, and the band - and their friends - are awesome people, and they come to play a show in your town, well, it’s exciting. And I was prepared. I’d loaded the fridge with Budweisers. Because I’ve seen these guys consume Budweisers, and believe me, you need to have a lot of them.

I’d rounded up a good number of friends to go see the show that night. I think I fell only slightly short of being completely annoying, sending emails out and whatnot to remind them, but the result was a group committed to the cause and that’s all I needed. The band would provide the music, and the bar the beers, and I was pretty sure we’d have a great night.

After a few naps, some memories of our summer in Maine and some reconnecting with Mina, we all went out for Mexican food, and afterwards headed over to the venue, The Nightlight, a coffee shop and bookstore by day, and bar by night. The band played a great show with their tour mate, T.V. Mike, and many people showed up to come and watch. I felt, honestly, very lucky looking around that place and seeing everyone who’d answered the call, whether they wanted to hear music or just to be supportive, I was so thankful for all my wonderful friends.

We had some beers. The band and a contingent of those I’d invited to the show were all set to go out in Chapel Hill, so we left the bar.

Chapel Hill is small, so running into someone you know, or sort of know, or don’t know really, but maybe you’ve had a couple and you feel like you might as well introduce yourself, is always a possibility. So when I saw the guy who works at The Open Eye Cafe, an establishment where J and I sometimes like to get our morning cup of coffee, I didn’t hesitate too long before I romped on over to say hello.

The thing about this particular guy is that, through our friends, J and I, somehow, know that he writes for Pitchfork, which, if you aren’t hip to the indie rock fame game, or if you are over 45, is an album-rating and general music site that people equate with God when it comes to what one should be listening to. Really. I don’t care to admit it, but if I like an album and Pitchfork hasn’t rated it highly my feelings get hurt. “What’s wrong with me?” I wonder. I hope to get over this someday.

In my giddy state that night, I thought, “WHAT FORTUNE!” Here’s a guy I’d seen around enough to maybe introduce myself, PLUS, my little brother’s band had just played a set at the very bar he was about to walk into. Surely he’d want to at least say hi to the band members and maybe take home a free CD.

Well, I don’t know if he wanted either of those things, but I walked right up and said hello, and told him my husband had written about him on his blog (which is true, as you can see in this blog entry about the Chapel Hill music scene, specifically referencing Brian Howe).

Really, is there anything a person wants more than to have a perfect stranger walk up to them and say, “My husband wrote about you on his blog!”? I don’t think so.

Luckily, Brian turned out to be an extremely nice guy and said we could drop off a CD for him at the coffee shop. Thus, I am effectively ending any notions you people might have that those who write music reviews of those popular, but not too popular lest they become mainstream and therefore no good anymore, bands that sell out the local music hotspots in, like, five seconds are uptight and distant people. This one guy, anyway, is really friendly, which is good, especially when people start running up to him and gushing about their brother’s band and their husband’s blog. You need to be kind to handle that sort of thing.

As we were leaving we heard talk of a 50s and 60s soul/funk dance party going on at Tallulah’s, an excellent restaurant on Franklin St. that turns into a happening bar at night. The word was, however, that this DJ Calvin Johnson was playing, and we might have a hard time getting in. Because he’s very well known.

Telling me that a DJ is famous is the same as telling me about a famous physicist or architect. Maybe I should, but chances are I’m not going to know who the person is or anything about their impact on American culture. I hadn’t heard of this guy, but good music and dancing? I was in! We honed our positive energy and headed over to the bar, hopeful that there wouldn’t be a line, and lo and behold, there wasn’t. Straight to the dance floor we went. At this point we had become a powerful force - the band, plus Rogue, Bryan and T.V. Mike, as well as some of my favorite microbilogists, Sonnie, Ginnie and Liz and our new German friend Christian, who kept telling me he had “a wooden leg” when I enthusiastically attempted to coax him onto the dance floor.

I decided that it might be nice to hear a song we knew. So I went up to this Calvin fellow and told him, “Hey, I heard you’re a pretty famous DJ. Do you have any Curtis Mayfield?” He didn’t, but it turns out people like Calvin Johnson don’t respond too badly to being told that they’re “a pretty famous DJ.” I’m not saying it was the greatest day of his life or anything, but when I explained that we were going back to my house for an after party, because believe me, what we needed at that point was to stay up a little later and have some more cocktails, he accepted.

We arrived back at the cinderblock cottage after 3 a.m. and I proceeded to put on a mix I’d made earlier that week which featured a bunch of our favorites from the summer, like “Werewolves of London” and “Dancing in the Moonlight.” I put it on loud, even though I clearly remembered myself thinking, before the band arrived, that we wouldn’t be having any crazy parties later at my house because I respect my neighbors, and also, I mean, I didn’t need to be staying up til the early hours of the morning because I already did that a couple of times this summer. But that logic wasn’t sound enough and we carried on.

Pretty soon, even though we thought he might have better things to do on a Friday night, Calvin Johnson showed up with a small posse, including the guy from this band Weird War, who I’d actually seen perform one time. Unfortunately I didn’t know that that is who it was, or I could have said something relevant, like, “Hey, I saw your band play!” Instead I made sure everyone had beers and rum and cokes and at one point took out a photo album of my baby pictures in the hopes that we could find some amusing pictures of my little brother and maybe make fun of him. I also made sure the mix I’d made played over and over and over, because people seemed pretty into it.

A few hours later I decided it was just time and got in bed. I awoke to the sound of people waking from deep slumbers…on my floor and porch, and I even heard that the famous DJ and friends slept in the back yard and departed early. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but guys, a famous DJ may or may not have slept over, and even if he didn’t, he did come to my after hours party, the point being that yeah, I might not have a job right now and I’m certainly not on the brink of truly “making it” or anything as a journalist, but success is sometimes who you know, and when people who warrant a Wikipedia entry are rumored to have slept in your backyard, well, you’re getting somewhere.

A few days ago we got together with our friends to watch the classic summercamp movie, “Meatballs.” We’d all considered it a must-see film for most of our lives, but none of us had ever sat down and watched it. So we decided to deal with the poor sound quality and 70’s outfits and see what all the fuss was about.

While we were watching, we started to really wonder what the hell all the fuss was about. I mean, here’s a movie with no plot and bad acting, plus a title that has nothing to do with the story. “Meatballs?” Really? Why?

Afterwards we declared the movie a total disaster and agreed that we were none the better for watching it. I’m sure some of you won’t like this opinion, some of you people who are responsible for “Meatballs” becoming such a cult classic in the first place, but come on. What was the deal with that little boy Rudy and his relationship with Bill Murray’s character? Our friend Mike kept wondering aloud if maybe they were going to hook up. At least that would have been a plot twist worth following.

Despite the fact that I didn’t get the movie, I will say it certainly caught the feel of summercamp successfully. Back in the day, when I was a frizzy-haired adolescent beauty, with those pink, plastic-rimmed glasses and a penchant for being ultra-pensive at the drop of a hat (luckily I had a diary to capture all the best, most moving thoughts and feelings), I attended Camp Appalachia, which, as you may have guessed, was settled near the beautiful mountain chain, and complete with everything a young person could want at camp. There was an arts and crafts cabin, a large dining hall and horseback riding. We took swimming lessons in a very cold river with a wicked strong current. We sang camp songs in unison after meals, competed in talent shows and asked our counselors about their romantic lives, something we’d have to look forward to someday. We brushed our teeth together using water faucets situated at the end of the row of cabins, and we took showers together in the communal shower room which featured no curtains or anything of the sort. Being stark naked in front of everyone, just everyone, is exactly what you want when you are a budding teenager, after all.

But perhaps the thing I remember most fondly about Camp Appy, as it was fondly called, was gathering around this girl’s bunk - “Peanut,” we called her - and learning about tampons and how it’s pretty hard to put them in.

You’re asking yourselves, “She’s not serious, is she? A summer complete with nature and campfires and new friends and she remembers some tampon conversation?”

Yes. Because it was one of those moments in my young life I think about every time I see a movie like “Meatballs,” or a copy of the book “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret,” and I’m reminded that I, too, was once a young girl unsure of what was to come in life. Therefore, sitting there on a nearby bunk, with probably a few pimples but no need yet for a bra, and not yet feeling the pangs of unrequited love, listening to this girl talk about trying tampons for the first time - this girl I sort of revered, because she’d been at Camp Appy, like, every summer since birth pretty much and just totally knew her stuff - was one of those coming of age moments that just can’t be bought. And the shorts and t-shirts we put on every day, the sweatshirts we needed while walking the grounds at night, the friendship bracelets, stealing Cabin Nine’s underwear, the petty fights and the bat that woke us up that one, horrible time, flying above our heads in a blind frenzy…those things didn’t make the moment, but they certainly amplified and perfected it. Something they don’t advertise in the brochures, but something they usually get right in the movies. A lesson just as important as learning to play tennis or getting the backstroke just right.

7:45 a.m. Wake up, go for a run, eat Raisin Bran and have a cup of coffee (start to a healthy, productive day)

Kiss husband goodbye, he heads to work

Shower, and dress

9:30 a.m. Drive to Kinko’s to utilize their state-of-the-art printing and copying services, thus ensuring I have clear and legible copies of my resume and other career-gaining documents

10:30 a.m. Arrive at local, hip coffeeshop with computer and positive outlook, look at the others there with their computers and positive outlooks, shirking the traditional 9-5 grind, and think “I have always wanted to be one of these people”

Order cup of coffee and proceed to get down to work

1 p.m. Have lunch with a good friend, eat salad, outside, under an umbrella, complete with brilliant conversation

2:30 p.m. Realize, unfortunately, I have to go back to Kinko’s for lack of certain, important documents

3 p.m. Fight masses of newly returned students on Franklin St., notice severe lack of quarters and thus, must return home or I cannot park in town that fails to realize free parking would be, well, nice

3:30 p.m. Return to town equipped with change

Return to Kinko’s

Print 12 billion copies of various documents, since every version seems to need a new correction

Discard imperfect copies in recycling bins

Finally depart with what seems like a miniscule reward for such dedication to the cause

4:30 Arrive back home, hungry, eat many crackers and cheese after meaning to only eat a couple of crackers and cheese, but they were just so good, and what the hell, I did a lot of work

Polish off with leftover gummy bears

Sit, sullen, on couch, wondering what I’m going to do with my life

Turn on television

Realize that despite the fact that Lifetime has removed the 6-7 p.m. showing of back to back episodes of “The Golden Girls,” thus sort of ruining my world, they are showing the program from 4-5 p.m.

Watch a little because it’s so good

It starts to rain

I like the rain so I feel a little better, and the rain also helps it seem more legitimate that I’m sitting inside relaxing, when I really should not be relaxing ever but instead pursuing something amazing and worthwhile

5 p.m. Decide to make tea, because tea, in addition to “The Golden Girls,” and the rain, makes me feel better

Feel better

Assess day’s accomplishments

Reason that, despite being relatively non-thrilling, perhaps day’s accomplishments were, just maybe, worthwhile, and perhaps even fairly amazing

This weekend J and I drove to Atlanta to see our friends and spend some quality time with one another in this car. That’s what I said to justify the semi-long drive (5 or 6 hours depending on traffic and whatnot) - that besides getting to catch up with good friends, we’d get to spend the entire car ride talking and just being together. We’d make a lot of pitstops and have a really great time.

The thing about car rides, however, I always seem to forget when planning these trips, is that, inevitably, all you do the whole time is check out the mile markers and complain that “it cannot possibly be that far away, it just can’t.” That, and eat way too many gummy bears. Having gummy bears in the car is just bad news for me, because I look at them, and think about how little are harmless they are, and the next thing you know I’ve had about 100 gummy bears and am slouched down in the seat complaining that my stomach hurts and vowing to never eat them again. I never learn, though.

Luckily, seeing our friends alone was, of course, worth the drive. That, and having Joe introduce us to this video on YouTube.

Lest you think I’m spending my non-working days watching funny videos, just know that earlier I made lasagna and then cleaned up the whole kitchen.

Since I completed a lot of practical to-do list items yesterday, like opening my mail and going to the bank, this afternoon I decided it might be best to work on my resume for a while. After all, having a thorough and well-written resume will most likely help me in my quest for gainful employment, freelancing gigs, or if not, at least it will make me feel good to read it and realize I have done a few things while I’m watching hour five of “What Not to Wear” on TLC.

I’m not big on the technical improvements of the last decade so my resume is this behemoth of the golden era of Resume Wizard and I never, ever plan to change the template. Not if it means doing tricky shortcuts and pulling up bulleted lists at the drop of a hat. When I’ve gone to interview at temp agencies in the past, I always amaze them with my very fast typing skills, thanks to years and years of constant emailing with friends while at work. Where I fail are those awful tests that assess your aptitude of the basic computer programs like Microsoft Office, ensuring you know how to do impossible, horrible things like create a data chart on Excel that adds up columns of numbers and whatnot. I just sit there and nearly cry until it’s over and they see my results and say, “Um…Ok.” The next week I’m happily answering phones in some nice office, free to very quickly type all the emails I want.

Luckily, I’ve kept my resume pretty up to date over the years and today just wanted to add a couple of the things I’ve been working on lately and thus get millions of job offers. It took me a while, copying and pasting and wording everything just so, but I’m happy with the end result. Next, I decided, I’d see if I could get the old printer up and running so I could send a few letters out and attach my new resume.

There’s a lot we take for granted when we work in offices, like printers and copy machines and people who will come and fix those things for you when they don’t work.

The printer didn’t work the first time I tried it. Typical, I thought. So I messed around with the printer utility program on my computer, which is a total joke because it certainly did NOT explain to me why the machine would make noises, like it was totally going to do something awesome, and then just fall silent, all the lights blinking.

I got on the floor, next to the thing. As this is only day two of my being back from Maine and not working and all that, I decided that this afternoon and this afternoon alone it would be ok if I wore some comfy, not-fit-to-go-out-in clothes. Because I’m being productive, you know? And soon, tomorrow and all the days after, I’m going to have to be very professional and clean and on top of things because I’ll go crazy if I’m not, so what’s the problem if I’m wearing my grey tank top and these cotton drawstring shorts that are a different shade of grey, and oh, yeah, I haven’t showered yet?

So I got on the floor in that little ensemble, saw that the ink light was blinking red and proceeded to open up the printer and try to figure it out like the natural mechanic I am. I looked at the illustrated instructions pasted inside for determining if the ink has, indeed, run out, and followed them, pressing one button, then waiting for a small plastic pointer to show me the culprit. Cyan. According to the illustration, my color printer is out of Cyan. Not black. I decided to take matters into my own hands and pushed a number of buttons until the ink cartridge holder slowed it’s wild dance and came to a stop so I could grab the black ink cartridge and shake it, which is exactly what you’re supposed to do, right? Thankfully the damage was minimal, the black ink only reached my hands before I realized there was some left in there. I washed them, and of course it’s still there, but that’s evidence that I’ve worked hard. That’s what I say. Plus, the effort helped me figure out that the printer isn’t out of black ink, really. It’s just broken in other ways that I’ll never, ever be able to fix. Therefore I won’t be listing skills concerning printers on my resume. Come to think about it, I don’t think I’ll be listing any skills, administrative, or otherwise. I can’t fix the computer, printer or copy machine and I can’t make an Excel spreadsheet, but I can use Spellcheck and am generally decent in the grammar department so, honestly, I’m a pretty great candidate for the job. Take my word for it.

Blah blah blah “animal abuse” blah blah. I don’t want to hear it.

I’m home. I’m home in Chapel Hill, in my little cinderblock house where I live with my husband. I arrived last night, did my volunteer radio show after a month’s absence, and then had a long dinner with J. He and I exchanged stories. A few too many of mine began by setting the scene in a very ridiculous manner (such as, “Ok. We were playing this really intense game of beer pong…”).

Today I’m catching up on emails. Bills. Junk mail. I’m doing loads of laundry. I feel a bit like that family in The Velveteen Rabbit after the child has scarlet fever. Burn (or wash) everything because it’s all tainted. The smell of the ocean, a lethal disease…they’re similar.

I plan to catch up with friends soon to tell them my stories. I’m not sure what to tell. As we were driving into the city Sunday, Jennifer and I listened as Max talked to a friend on his cell phone. “Well, I’ve just spent the better part of a month in Maine, having the time of my life,” he said. That about sums it up.

But I’m excited about getting back to work, whatever that means for me now. I recently emailed a successful journalist, a friend of my parents, for career advice. She emailed me back a very long and helpful email that began by stating that she wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing with my time or why I left my job. When I read that I worried. Indeed, who the hell do I think I am leaving my job with no idea of what the future holds?

Then I not only remembered that I’m allowed to subscribe to whatever particular life philosophy I want and not care what others may think, but I thought about the amazing time I’d just spent with friends, and even though I’m certainly not working too hard, I know what it means to have a meaningful experience, and if you want to write about something, a meaningful experience is a great place to start.