Today is the last Friday of the rest of my life. Well, I hope not the rest of my life, but it is of my pleasurably not employed life.

Monday morning, I again will toil behind the grind wheel of working for the man. Well, not exactly the man, since I’ll be working for a woman. And, since it’s going to be at a rather large philanthropic organization, “the man” could be defined as the “down-trodden.”

But, goddamnit, I’m going back to work. Kill me, but not with a hand gun, because I now am officially hand-gun adverse.

M., sweet patootie that he is, has planned a celebratory cookout for Sunday evening to fete my employment. Won’t he be surprised when I curl into a fetal ball and weep inconsolably in the corner?

I have thoroughly enjoyed my time off, and my heart is heavy with the thought of returning to the workforce. Sure, the people with whom I’ll work seem nice, the benefits are kickass, the salary adequate and the work possibly interesting, but nothing compares to sitting on your ass free to be yourself 24/7.

For those of you counting, it’s been 11 months, almost to the day, since I had my psych appointment to discuss the violence issues I never possessed. My how time flies when you spend it hiring lawyers, writing and traveling, whilst feeling not in the least psychotic.

I think spending the weekend with guns really underscored for me the absolutely, appalling, but goddamnitedly ironically funny, accusation of my violence. Yeah, right after I get beaten down, I’ll raise that old fist of rage.