Taking my bat, Taking my Ball, and Going Home

I. Need. To. Quit. My. Job.

Now.

It does nothing but fill me with dread. Of course, now, post-Happy Pill, it is more like "Crap, I am moving and I have to pack up all of the things I call valuable belongings, but as soon as I begin the process, I will just refer to as 'crap.' And it is going to take up my whole weekend and it is going to *suck*, *suck*, *suck.* Agh! Eh, whatever" dread, rather than "OM-Fn-G, I would rather have my eyelids taped open, have my finger nails pulled out one by one, and be forced to eat a jug of mayonnaise like it was ice cream" dread. But it is dread nonetheless.

Dread should not be the definining emotion of something you spend 50 or so (give or take, or give some more) hours a week doing.

I realized today that I have never looked forward to coming to work. Not once. In four years. And I have only taken one vacation. In that whole time. And it was with my parents and various and sundry other relatives.

Damn. That is not good.

This is not good. I am definitely over it.

I was under it for a long time. But now, I super-doubly-certainly-positively over it.