I love my job. I really do. It's perfect - I get to play with books all day. Some of them are really cool books, too. Big books, small books, cool new books, really cool really old books...it's awesome. I'm still trying to weigh seven days of my life commuting a year vs. $6,000 or so more rent per year, but I'm not worrying about it. I'm just looking, and when the right place comes along, I'll be ready.
Is this really all it takes? A good job, a great therapist and letting go? Who knew?
Listening to: The Eels
Reading: The Selected Letters of William Faulkner (sorry, Billy, but they're interesting)
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