My relief is undeniable...

as I relish the email one final time before sending it. It'll all be over in two weeks from the time I press the minimalistic paper airplane in the top right. I fail to notice the period after my name at the end, it was surely a Freudian slip of "ha! I'll show you!" to the three recipients who I currently answer to.

*Tap*

Freedom. Normal sleep. Telephone discussions with Specialbeans at bedtime, just like how it used to be. Church potluck. Time with the boys. Marketable skills. Pizza for my hour-long lunch break. A boss who's a mentor. Dinner with my family. Dinner with Sophie's family. Sunsets (after the equinox). Relief, a normal life, and a hard reverse on the social suicide that's been in progress for a month.

I put in my two week's notice at Polaris. Why? The hours and work were not worth it for me. I get antsy when I have no intellectual stimulation. I applied at a bunch of places, and, after a brief conversation today, I received a job offer and a shop tour.

I'm trading approximately 28 cents an hour, $1000 in potential bonuses, some cool benefits like loaner machines, and a month of my probationary period for a job at Hockinson Auto Works.

I couldn't be happier.

With the recent announcement that I'd be working almost 7 nights a week until around Christmas, I pulled the plug. My body can only take so much. That would have meant no church, rare Sophia, worse anxiety, and lots of moolah.

Screw moolah. There's some things in life you can't put a price on, like Sophie. I wouldn't trade her for worlds. I mean technically I'd see if there was a way to eat my cake and have it too, cause, you know, I'd own worlds. If I bent all of my influence to bring back Helen to my Troy...

The only think that dampens my excitement is the dampness of my mucous in my throat. That, partnered with a fever, sore throat, and other fli-like symptoms, is shaping up to make my Thanksgiving miserable. It's 5:05 a.m. as I write this, trapped in a body at war. While the moon slips low in the sky, temperature extremes fight for dominance over me as they have all night. Chills, blanket, overheating. Overheating, open window, chills. The chills are a broken indicator of my body tempurature, as I seem to be running between 101 and 102 degrees since late evening. I should be asleep right now, but the thought of stomach upset terrifies me. Living with emetophobia is constant fear and self-hyperawareness. I want to avoid "The V Word" at all costs.

As I haven't the energy or desire to sit up at my laptop, I'm typing this on my phone. Come to think of it, it's a throwback to my first House Arrest posts. Those were forged on a brick of a phone and messaged, through a friend, to my computer.

I'm exhausted. The heat is winning right now, I've gotta fight it.

I'll be missing out on stuffing, turkey, dinner with the family,

I know not why this date was choosed to wake this cursed anomaly.

Elated I was to see my uncle, aunt, and dog.

Now my day of thanking's dinner's in my throat and it's a frog.

Sauce of Berry? I must wary,

Warily, I sense myself.

Be it bread or pie from Shari,

Verily, it's my poor health.

My eating disorder is in remission,

"Nevermore must it prod at me" is my vision.

Realistic? Who knows. A mission of fission,

The tumor removed that gives it permission.

Surely it's a hardwired thing,

Ooo

*Falls asleep*