Lazy Days of Summer? Oh Shit!

I don't actually know what happened to her.

I'd like to say I knew, that I saw her one day on the street, passed out with a brown bagged bottle at her fingertips. But alas, I do not know.

 The way this life works she may be found somewhere else in the blogosphere, terrorizing another poor, delicate soul with her angry shriekings and bipolar demands for the unreasonable. But alas, I do not know what has happened to the Shrill.

But I do know that she is gone, no longer darkening CorpraCo's hallways. Whether it was her own doing, really, is unsure, but I can certainly speculate.

Shortly following my departure things, I'm guessing, went to hell. It's no secret, at least not to me, that I had a significant impact on everything that happened in, and was produced by, my former PR department. Once I was gone, I can imagine the slide was rapid and ugly.

Very, very ugly.

Moles have told me that after a few days the excuse, "but the Spipster used to do that" was forcibly verboten by order of the Shrill. Apparently she got sick and tired of learning that every single step in the process was overseen, like an evil grammarian overlord, by moi.

Muwahaahahahaha!

But I digress. I know she got sick and tired of hearing my name, and eventually I'm assuming the rest of the evil overlords did as well, and a little more than two weeks after I claimed my freedom she turned in her notice and claimed hers…

Just a little sooner than she expected, and a few short hours – rather than weeks –  after giving her notice she Shrill was on her way out the door, doing her best to keep from getting knocked over as it hit her in the ass.

Sometimes there's nothing better than the pure, warm feeling of vindication, no matter how indirect it may be.

Unfortunately, I can only revel in the bliss of being right for so long, as the bills are still unpaid, and the moneyhags are clamoring for more.

What to do?

Oh wait, that's right. The plan is to be an uber go-getter and get my go out there to work the suits and wow them into giving me their business.

Except I haven't done that. Not even a little bit…

Shit.

But that's okay, right? Yeah, yeah that's okay. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's not like I'm not working,and not working freelance, either, because I am.

As a matter of fact I'm working almost 40 hours a week for some big clothing company putting together  their annual ginormous catalog. It's mindless work no one expects anything from me but type-type-type, but it's liberating. At least for now.

For the budget albatross is clinging staunchly to my bent back, clawing at my hair and pooping on my shoulder. It ain't pretty.

Somehow I have to find it within myself to get my arse out into the world, in between the daily – albeit freelance –grind. I just seem to be having a hard time.

And having a crisis of confidence to boot.

I'm not normally like this. Friends will (probably) tell you that I'm an insanely motivated, downright driven, don't sleep inject the coffee chewing on sugar cubes kind of girl.

I was president of my freakin' graduate class, people!

Unfortunately, that inhuman drive seems to have escaped me lately.

Mr. Spipster told me the other night he doesn't think I have the drive to go out and get the proverbial brass ring. Okay, maybe not in those exact words. He's not really the lyrical type.

But it concerned me nonetheless because it's that's not me.

At least, it wasn't me. Isn't me. Never used to be me.

Is it me?

Oh gawd, is it???

Even if it turns out that in my old age I've turned into a soft, couch-sitting slacker, that option isn't currently open to me. Not really.

Not unless I want to crawl back to another CorpraCo to spend the rest of my life a la zombie, watching the clock until they put me in the cold, hard ground.

Or send me packing to the local homeless shelter because I'm madame breadwinner.

Christ… someone get me another glass of wine!