I've been unemployed for 25 hours now; contradictory to the prevailing panic out there, this is, for me, definitely a good thing. I've got freelance work lined up, but it doesn't start until mid-June, so I'm going to spend this next month getting my apartment sorted, visiting family and friends, reading and writing. I've got a stack of books chest-high next to the sofa and I want to get through them over the next couple of months. This might also stop me spending my non-income on Amazon and the Book Depository. I have a bunch of stories that need editing or deleting, and a few projects that I haven't had a solid crack at yet, so if I can make a decent dent in these things before my next job starts, I'll feel pretty satisfied entering into the summer.

But so far - today - I've been painting the bathroom, ripping out shitty building work courtesy of 2008's Hell Builder B*$%*@£, and going mad with PolyFilla and silicone sealant. The house smells funny and my skin feels weird. Beats work though, suckas!

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