In the grand scheme of things, I realize my job is not my be-all end-all of existence. Or maybe it is. I don't know; there seems to be a lot of conflicting cultural perspectives on it, which have all carved out unrelenting but endlessly confusing channels in my brain - much like water dripping over stalactites over time, it's a drippy, bumpy mess up there. I am carved to believe that jobs don't matter. I am carved to believe that you are a fool to believe that jobs really don't matter. I am also a lady, which means that both sides are true and are accompanied by intense lady-pressure. Sometimes from actual ladies (the kind who exist in the world outside my brain, saying and doing things), sometimes from pretend ladies (the ideal kind I constantly fret I'm supposed to be like, because they are much smarter, cooler, prettier, classier, more emotionally and mentally resilient than I, etc.). If my brain could talk, which I suppose it does if we can consider writing s...