I quit the waitressing job about a month ago, and am I ever glad I did. There was no lack of characters (truckers, cowboys, strippers) to entertain me, but there are limits to the number of times I can shoulder complaints about hair in the food and undercooked chicken. Seriously. If you can’t honestly recommend the product you sling, can you really feel good about slinging it?

Nope. Something that the tobacco companies probably ought to think about.

My current job is offering me an abundance of learning opportunities, but it’s a major struggle to throttle my gypsy tendencies. I was whining to my Mom about not knowing where my home is, not really liking any one place enough to live there, and she snappishly noted that I don’t really seem to like anywhere much. Duly noted. It’s not that I don’t like places, but it’s the commitment to a place that freaks me out. Oooh, psychology time… I was thinking that a phobia of commitment might be a problem of mine when some smart-ass (the bride’s brother, I think) noted at a wedding I went to this summer that about 50% of the guys in the room were my ex-boyfriends. (It wasn’t true! In that case, anyway.) I mean—hey, you’re only young once, and dating copiously was one of those things I wanted to do while I could. I did it. I’ve done it, I’ve finished it, and it was fun—no regrets, right?

If I have any regrets, it’s that I got so used to tasting all the flavours at the ice-cream-store, that I almost didn’t realize how unhealthy it was. Anyway, I think I’ve found my favorite flavour now, and I’ll stick with him, thank you very much.

Yummmmmm.