I like it; I like the people I'm working with; it's my kind of hectic which means I'm not bored, and it pays well, and I have health insurance for the first time in 2.5 years. And though I have to get up much earlier than I'm used to and the hours will be a bit crazy at points, it should mostly allow me plenty of time to do things like kick and punch stuff, write, and twirl tassels. It's not games; it's not housing. I have no serious creative or moral investment in my job, and frankly, that's a relief.
At some point, when I have more brain space, I'd like to write a bit about how people with class privilege are more likely to fetishize poverty than those who grew up in it; about how the tendency to worship working long hours for meager wages at a non-profit at the expense of financial, physical, mental, and spiritual well-being is an example of the same capitalist hegemony that convinces middle-class adolescent males at game companies to proudly boast about how much they worked crazy hours during crunch time; about how this is all not just about internalized classism but also about internalized ableism, wherein our value as people is based more on what we do (and how much we do) than who we are.
But that's gonna take a while to really dive into.
I've been having some weird dreams lately. Lots of life-and-death kinda stuff, though one last week was pretty funny. It was all "Mission: Impossible" top-secret espionage, with me trying to get to a "target." While I thought I was supposed to kill him, it turned out that what I really had to do was deliver to him a recording of myself giving him a snarky, sharp-tongued dressing-down for breaking my friend's heart a couple of weeks ago in one of the most gutless, inhumane displays of dickishness I've seen since my run-in with the Tall Drink of Chicken a couple years back.
So, that was kind of cool.
In the meantime, conditionbronze and I have been looking for an apartment together and will be meeting (and introducing Java the Mutt to) some potential landlords this Sunday.