I am, as of yesterday, officially unemployed. And, let me tell you; I feel really fucking fabulous about it.
I am fortunately in a position to be able to pluck myself out of responsibility and swan around Manchester town for two weeks on a freelance basis. I have a wide, shining fortnight of participating only in watching The Good Place; masturbating; pounding my keyboard and doing lengths of breaststroke. Fourteen days of pure respite before jumping into an actual career.
I can salute the midday sun every afternoon with an oat latte and a plate full of creamy tofu scramble if I so choose. Down sweet-as- fuck glasses of the sweet stuff until I pass out; or reconnect with productivity and actually do something creative with my days via Indesign and Lightroom. I am, simply put, buzzing for a break.
Naturally, on my initial day of unemployment (and first Sunday off in MCR since July) I spent horrifically hungover in bed. Fuelled by Saturday night’s strong white wine and salty marg’ flirtation; my raging Sunday hangover was slowly soothed with a catch-up binge of The Circle; a buttery bowl (or two) of vegan spaghetti bolognese, and endless cups of sugary almond milk tea. Throw in a three hour-strong nap and we were onto a winner.
I watered my neglected plants; finally washed off my streaming mascara better-late-than-never at 5pm, fake tanned to oblivion and devoured a puy lentil and mushroom wellington with all the trimmings at Gorilla.
I downed glasses of spicy ruby red Bloody Mary’s; shared embarrassing bedroom stories over on-tap margaritas at YES and cried laughing with some of my favourite people on the planet. As far as Sunday’s go, I would say I had a gorgeous one indeed.
It is odd how eliminating something which was making me gag with misery has cleansed my mindset. I actually wanted to wake up and live for once. Here is to feeling that same radiating positivity for the next two weeks. Maybe an unemployed roast is all I needed to kickstart my happiness again.