Days I Wish I Were Anonymous

The thing that has taken up the vast majority of my time this semester — and something on the order of 95% of my emotional energy — is something I absolutely, positively cannot write about. Not even in allegorized form. And it’s less of an exaggeration than I’d like to think to suggest that this unmentionable thing is killing me: I’m developing an ulcer, I’ve only gotten a few decent nights’ sleep in the last few weeks, and my stupid floppy mitral valve has been producing intermittent chest pain. All stress-induced, of course, and precisely the kind of thing that it usually helps to vent about.

But I can’t, not this time. Instead, I cut my hair, bought good ass-kicking boots, and am counting the days until I can get the hell out of here.

This is not how I want to feel about my job. And this is certainly not how I want to feel about my life.