You know the feeling, the chittery, jittery waffling, the butterflies, the ant Icipcation (no Carol King, please). The sweaty palms, leaky bladder and uncooperative sphincter (O where are my Depends when I need them?).
It's below you, you know it's going to be good, but there's shadows of doubt:
1) Will my air be as perfect as phUnk's?
2) Will I be as madly driven as Rad Boo?
3) Will I be as blindly tied to my dogma as the karma that ran over it?
4) Will I be as hospitable as Woodsy?
5) Will I uphold the honor and elan due the Consortium of Maggots?
There's a landing down there, but you can't see it, feel it or put the Punani moves on it until you let it all go.
Well, I'm standing at the precipice of one of these. And my pudenda is encrusted with the sands of the gobi, sahara and kalahari. I've been torqued, wrenched, kicked, angry, bent, mangled and twisted beyond the nth Derived Functors of Tensor, TOR.
My professional life has sucked beyond words, shrieks, dark or pain. And I'm a flakey froufrou freewheeling freak. You clowns knew that. But I've got the best things of my life depending on me, two teensy wads of gooey joy and a pink package of pleasurable pulchritude. Surely, they are deserving of more, of vacations on the Rivera, olive harvests in Tuscany, powder days in La Grave and Silverton, sunsets at Malibu, Waimea, Fiji, spring in Provence. Quiet days at the Uffizi, the Art Institute, MOMA, the Louvre, the Tate, the Hermitage. Endless days of roller coaster sticky cotton candy funparks.
But I'm going to jump out of the corporate corset and into the cradle of consulting.
I'm hoping the landing is soft and filled with enough money to float turns for me and my cadre. I hope there will be more time, no more blocked vacations, no more rounds of firing and layoffs, no more thinly veiled veal lipped hostilities from ignorant beadle eyed, bean counting managers.
I really don't know. But I've got to do it. Wish me luck.
(and if I can squeeeeze one out, maybe even LL?)
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