July 13, 2000

Okay, so, the good thing is that I just got offered a cool new job. The bad thing is I can’t take Elijah with me.

The cool new job entails writing about actual interesting things, like books, and authors, and, well, just books and authors, but hip, cool, so left-of-center they’re right books and authors. It also entails schmoozing with publishing people. Three guesses on how many times I’ve schmoozed, and the first two don’t count. So, yeah, that part is cool. Also, they are showing me the money.

But, seriously, can I just tell you how much I’m going to miss Elijah on a daily basis? Because I am. I totally, totally am. Not even in a boyfriend sorta way, because, despite the impression I may be giving you, he is not my boyfriend. No, but really. Just in a guy I see every day and he never fails to at some point make my tear up with laughter sorta way. I will miss him giving me cookies and graham crackers and Diet Pepsis every day, because he does. And I will miss him falling out of his chair, which he has done twice since I’ve been working here, one time splitting the plastic garbage can in his cubicle in two with the force of his head.

I have told him I will miss him, and he says I don’t have to miss him -- we can still have lunch. My new job is only a 10-15 minute walk away from my old job. But it will not be the same. It will be different. I won’t see him everyday without trying. I hate having to try.

But the job, she is good, and it is a great opportunity for me. I get to write. For money. I get to: be a professional writer. This should have me foaming at the mouth. This should have me shaking my groove thang. This should have me celebrate good times, come on. And I am. Or, I will. But mostly, I am scared that I will fuck up. And I am sad that I am leaving coworkers that I don’t absolutely hate. The two other times I have quit jobs, I have been so fed up with the company, and so desperate to leave, that the trip to the HR office to hand in my letter of resignation was lined with rose petals and swatches of silk. But, even though I don’t have an office, don’t have a cubicle, only just recently got shared voice mail, and don’t have a single piece of office furniture that is remotely ergodynamic, I don’t hate the people. Not all of them. Not any of them. And so, it’s sad to leave them. Especially here, where they sometimes give me free samples of tuna in a pouch and slices of peanut butter. I work at a supermarket trade publication. We really do get samples of tuna in a pouch and slices of peanut butter. Can I get a "yum"?

So yeah. I am sad. It’s like I’m graduating all by myself, leaving the other kids behind. And they’re all gonna talk about me when I’m gone. They totally are. They’re gonna say how mean I was, and how obvious it was that I wanted to have sex with Elijah (which I don’t) and how ugly my shoes were (but damn, are they comfy) and how I should have worn more makeup and how they’re glad I’m gone because they never really liked me, anyway. That is what they will say. Oh, also, that I thought I was so damn funny, when I clearly was not. And how I swung my hair to and fro like I hung the moon, or something. That’s exactly what they’ll say. “Anne thinks she fuckin’ hung the moon. Remember how she swung that hair to and fro? Who the hell does she think she is?”

And Porn Boss will lament my lack of tits. My lack of sex appeal in general. He will comment loudly and often on my everpresent back fat. He will put a picture of a large farm animal up on the wall, and write “Anne” underneath it. Everyone will have a good laugh.

Okay, so, suddenly, I’m really excited about this new job.

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