I braid my hair un-noticingly until I look up and notice the habit I picked up from "Reality Bites."
I'm experiencing doubt. Angst. Willing "Diabetic Coma" from a meal that a thinner me was named for, begging a mild headache to wash away the questioning.
Great, I'm doing a double-take on making a ton of commissioned income because I'm an inexcusable creature of habit. And because I had breakfast with co-workers and felt like a person. (yeah, yeah, eat-your-heart-out Hallmark.)
I WANT to finish out the year. I feel like I'm supposed to. Gut-feeling. It's one thing to make a rash change of career one-year short of retirement, but an entirely different one to have other lives depend on you and make such brash change.
So, "I'm sittin' here on Capitol Hill." Just sitting. Anyone know how to be a professional writer with benefits? I can define the term, "irony."