plague journaling

Today, several of my coworkers were joking about being essential. "Are you feeling essential?" "Oh, the world would stop spinning without me, are you kidding?" That was my answer. I heard this refrain repeatedly.

(It was nice to be included in the joking--my status as the weird kid with no friends is still pretty solid at work.)

The resentment is brewing: some of it deserved, some of it just the product of directionless rage and worry. There have been a couple of people who have talked about finding other jobs, long before this all started up, but they're speaking much more openly now. I don't think all that many will end up jumping ship--not right now, anyway, because a sure paycheck is a lot better than the alternative.

Gods know, for all my pissing and moaning, I'm glad to have a job that will keep paying me and doesn't look likely to slow down any time soon. They're starting to cut back on dad's hours, though who knows how long that'll actually hold true. So here I am, rapidly becoming the last bastion of financial stability for us. A position calculated to make me moderately neurotic.

Lake Lewisia #510

She always made a point to arrive early on market days, hoping to snag some well-placed flat rock or tree stump on which to display her own jewelry for sale. This time, though, she found one other merchant already there, stationed at the loveliest shale slab she had ever seen–a sight designed to launch her into proxisms of jealousy. Before the emotion could take hold, though, the shiny trinkets laid out caught her crafty magpie eye and she found herself more interested in shopping than selling.

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LL#510