I dreamed of the last job for the first time, and the day of leaving it. In the office of the hapless new chair, we did a final team-building exercise, and disagreed about the outcome and what it meant. Just before I woke, I dismissively said: One last tempest in a teapot. I am the child of the falling rain, the wet sleeping bag, So-No, I don’t take you seriously at all. It’s truly no wonder they despaired of me. I will not be bricked into a fake team.

I slept well, too, from three til ten.

My brain is disgorging the lumps of toxic authority it tried to reason with for so long. Faith No More. My body is catching up to itself and learning to be serene again slowly.

Entrepreneuria. The land of side-hustle videos. I read of a lamb who bought a second-hand pressure washer for two hundred dollars, and uses it to make back that much every day he chooses to work. I think back to my own experience with working in people’s yards. I think of the poor boys walking up to me as I work in my own, offering help for pennies.

My own pressurewasher might be a Linux box with a suite of self-publishing programs on it.
Or something … else.