I quit my job.
Well, I went per diem, which is the coward's quit, because I can still make money. But I won't get benefits and I won't get regularly scheduled shifts. April 10th is my last "real" day. After that I'll need to find a real job, but if things get tight I can pick up shifts, so I won't be under oh my god poverty doom pressure to find a real job.
I'm so glad. I know this is where the regret and fear are supposed to kick in, or at least a little shame that I'm in a privileged enough position that I can quit a steady job just because I don't like it, but I'm looking forward to the prospect of not being tired. Right now sleeping eight hours in the dark is a privilege for days off. I'm unreasonably stoked about the prospect, whatever the cost goddamn it, of doing this every night. It seems like the ultimate luxury.
It would also be somewhat luxurious to not have to deal with bodily fluids and the threat of assault so much, or at least not the threat of being assaulted with bodily fluids.
(As happened last night. What the hell place do you have to be in your life when "I know! I'll cut myself and smear my blood on the ER staff! That'll solve my problems!" seems like your best option?)
I knew things were bad when a coworker and I watched Dirty Jobs together, and both of us were consumed not with disgust but with envy. "So this guy has to handle fish guts. You know, he's working outdoors, doesn't have to deal with the public, seems to get along pretty well with his fellow fishgutters, he's union, he's day shift... ahhh... that must be the life."
I'm not 100% sure where I'm going from here. Story of my life. It's worked out okay so far.