I am the cheese.

Thus spake Jamie: I shall never change my state of permanent residency again.

Ever.

Ever.

If I do, would someone please take me out to pasture and put me out of my misery?

Thank you.

So, I broke my lease (it cost nearly two thousand dollars and it burns!), quit my job in the most unprofessional manner I could get away with (and got them to pay FMLA on top of it, hee hee) and I moved my stuff.

Actually, quitting my job was pretty fun, except for the horrible guilt I felt at having screwed over my coworkers, who are already working short. On the other hand, sometimes the ends justify the means, plus when you get to stick it to your boss who once told you that "taking abuse is part of this job" you just can't help but break out into a Machia vellian chortle of evil satisfaction as your plans of clever corporate subversion come to fruition.

Any hoo, now I live in the South, which doesn't suck like the Northeast. This objective, completely unbiased and terribly eloquent statement comes after a mindnumbing month of frantic, hamster-on-meth like activities related to said move. I've also been caught in what can only be described as a Bermuda-triange of metaphysical bureaucratic doom, where the phrase, "You didn't send us X document!" when I patently did too, you blood-sucking lazy ass state employees (!) has become something of typical soundbyte in my daily life.

Interestly enough, as a post 9/11 sidebar: in my new state, I either have to prove I am a) a lawful citizen of the United States or b) a documented illegal immigrant in order to obtain a driver's license. Seriously, the fact that I had a valid, unrestricted license from another state wasn't good enough--I had to present a US passport, certified copy of my birth certificate or naturalization papers (like everybody carries those around in their back pocket). My driver's license from Northeast State of Doom didn't cut the mustard; however, if I could prove I was an illegal documented immigrant--bingo! Incidentally, as a second form of ID, I could have presented my baptism records or family bible records or a baby book. I kid you not.

So do residents of Oklahoma have to prove they aren't interested in blowing up federal buildings in order to get a driver's license these days, but whatever, we'll give you a free pass as long as you were baptized?

(Incidentally, I was strongly reminded of the neuro assessment on the computer-based "charting" system at my old hospital, where option number was "alert or comatose." I always wanted to find a way to hack into the system and change option one to 'alert and comatose' which is how I felt most of the time at that job).

I have one and a half days left in my beautiful new apartment; tomorrow I have to start packing, drive 15 hours to a mid-Atlantic state, and start all over again on my travel assignment. But only for three months. Plus, all the furniture and "stuff" is provided, right down the company linens (which I hope are still in their original packaging, but I guess it could be worse. They could be putting me up in a Motel 6 or something).

And Piper gets to come with me, so it can't be all bad, right?

In celebration of my new, stand-alone, independent lease on life, I'm starting another blog, proudly entitled " The Scutmonkey." And one day, when I become Ninja Master of the Blogger, I will find a way to archive my old blog on this blog. But until then, I shall jealously guard my paper books and keep on the look out for an old fashioned typewriter, the kind without electricity, just in case something bad happens, like I'm ever without constant internet access for a fortnight.

Because the apocalypse is nigh. The Jehovah Witness at my front doorstep yesterday told me so.

Oh, it's so, so good to be back in the South.