a friend sent me a link to a job posting that mirrored my skill set so neatly it was almost a bit scary: an outlet wants a researcher-reporter-writer with crazy pet experience and solid veterinary and PR contacts to pen deep dives about the best products for beasts. it would have involved developing a peripheral relationship with amazon, though (fuck amazon*), and it was a full-time, in-house staff position. it turns out...that i don't actually want one of those? i mean, i reserve the right to revisit these feelings if the new yorker reaches out about a film-reviews-by-plastic-animals position, but i've gritted my teeth through two and a half years of Post-Office-Job Ghosthood and suspecting that editors who didn't respond to pitches within minutes hated my face, and i think i want these calluses. i love my hospital and my bookstore. i've actually started writing my book. i'm going on a crazy three-day whale-watching trip later this summer for it! (that will probably yield a health piece or two as well. i get so, so seasick.) i enjoyed knowing that i would impress these folks who want a researcher-reporter-writer—possibly i sent them a note to that effect—but this frankencareer means something to me. i think we belong together, at least until it starts killing my family and friends and leaves taunting notes for me all the way to the north pole.

*and fuck whole foods, i guess? truth be told, it's easy enough and probably more responsible for me to shop seasonally at farmers' markets and essex street marketand we'll have essex crossing in a year or two—but i will miss the comparative ease of filling a santa's-sack of groceries at one store on the way home from my weekly shifts at ye old charity bookstore. ah well. (fuck amazon.)