It's going. I'm still working on the "clear-up-confusion" draft. My goal is to get that done by June. I haven't covered much; the going seems even slower because I'm cutting so much crap out of the beginning that I'm on page
Ray peed in the potty today--she's wearing big-girl pants so it's important whether you make it on time or not.
Still no news on the job situation, other than "Yes, as we said before, it'll indeed be the end of the month before you find out anything."
I realized the other day, though, that it's important that I move along, one way or another. Everything that made doing this particular job pleasant has been moved out of the department, and it's never coming back. I hear some people bitch about their jobs, and rightly so: but the fact is that I used to like mine. I'd come home happy to have been running around doing it. Now it's the kind of grinding drudgery that makes chiropractors tut-tut.
"You're wearing down the edges of your bones," they'd say. "Someday you'll be nothing but a collection of bone spikes that hurt you more than they do anyone else."