So there are only a few days left until, I guess, I get to claim back what's left of my life from this job.

Not that it's really been so long any way — I've only really given up a summer and three months of my fall, which I probably wouldn't have had great uses for anyhow. I know a lot of people have spent a lot more there. But I somehow feel like, well, they wanted that. I did too, sort of. Except I also made a conscious decision to not make it possible to end up there all hours of the night, by taking semesters off, going abroad, and such. And yet, somehow, they got me anyway.

I sound bitter. I shouldn't. In the end, I've probably gotten more out of it than I've given (how much have I really given, afterall?). But I don't know. I get angry about these thing sometimes. I'd be lying if I said I didn't resent it all much of the time.

And then, suddenly, I'll get my life back and even though my reporters seem to look dismayed when I tell them I have no intention of doing anything here next semester (I look forward to the day when nobody can guilt trip me into anything with a phone call), I doubt I'll look back for long.

I know sometimes, I just give up a little — when I admitted the other night I hate breaking news, the managing editor told me I was in the wrong business. I told her I was perfectly aware of that and never had any intention to stay in this business (or even get so far in it in the first place). It sort of felt like the conversation I had with my math teacher senior year of high school, when he told me he wouldn't want to drive over any bridge I built, then paused to ask me what I was majoring in.

"English," I said.

"Oh," he said. "I guess you won't need this Calculus then."

No, I won't. You made me take it, remember?

But I should be sad. I might one day be sad, but honestly, the last time I quit, I didn't really miss it. I mostly was happy to be free. When I was in London, never once did I stop to regret not having bylines or writing experience or whatever.

I don't know why, when I think about how much I really never liked reporting, I feel somehow bitter about journalism. I just do. I feel like I'm sort of selling out when I say I wouldn't mind going into PR because I could write and do all the things I sort of like about journalism without actually having to drag things out of people. It might be sort of slimy, but I don't really mind spinning things.

I still hate it when people ask me what I'm doing next year. I probably will continue to do so until I know for sure, which may not happen until next year is over. The truth is, I really don't know what would make me happy, what I'd really like.

I don't want to go to school because I'm tired of class and I'm tired of reading and writing papers and just generally having to do shit that requires a lot of thought. And I don't want to do journalism because, while I could maybe do it for a year or so, I'd go crazy after a while with all the stress and deadlines. And even if I could make it through a year or two, I'd hate those years.

The things is, I've always been the sort of worker that employees adored. Awful as Vladimir was at TCBY, he loved me for the first year or so (summer after my freshman year at college, he told me it didn't seem like I was trying very hard. I'm not sure what he meant — it's fucking soft serve — but I think he was just bitter that I didn't want to work more hours). Internships, I always turned in a decent amount of work, even if I was never very good at sucking up in annoying, networking sorts of ways. I show up on time, get my stuff done and don't create a lot of problems.

They should so want to hire me.

But I don't know what I want, what would make me happy, or what I'd be even reasonably good at.

Is it wrong that I sort of just want a job at a desk that starts at 9 a.m. (10 would be even nicer) and ends at 5 p.m. (I'll stay 'til 6 if you really need me...)? That I've spent four years at roughly $40 grand a year to aspire to be someone's administrative assistant for $30 grand a year? That I just want to be able to afford a reasonably crappy apartment in a big city with maybe some health insurance to boot?

Maybe I'm just saying these things because it's 5:15 in the morning and I can't sleep and I don't want to go to class or write my paper or stop by the office tomorrow. Maybe being in a horrible mood doesn't do much to motivate me. Maybe I should shut up and just enjoy what's left. But that would probably be too simple.

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