work

So I have a real job. Real as in regular. Real as in benefits. Not so regular that I’ll go crazy and quit, but a guaranteed income.  It’s with the same sprawling organization I already work for, but with a department that is almost completely self-contained, so hopefully I will be provided with escape from the scullery gossip and pettiness that plagues my current environment. But who am I kidding? Gossip and pettiness are part and parcel of every job on Earth.

I’ll be a support worker at a women’s shelter. “Support” is an encompassing term, embracing ‘advocacy’ but not excluding ‘crisis resolution’ or ‘cleaning up vomit, piss, trash, and needles.’

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