Every time I start to get used to the idea that I may not be living in what is to an American middle-class kid abject poverty my whole life, along comes said relative abject poverty to knee me in the figurative cervix*.
The development project for which I have been doing the most lucrative and rewarding of my jobs has been suspended indefinitely, which means that yours truly has also been suspended indefinitely.
I did a great job for them, I picked up things I had no training in and excelled in them. The COO was so sorry. She said everyone including the CEO I'd never met loved the work I'd been doing, and if circumstances were not as bad as they could possibly be, she'd hire me full-time in a heartbeat.
What else paints a picture of the cold, random universe than doing something so well, working so hard at it, having everyone appreciate it, and a twist of a butterfly wing causes it to mean nothing? I am not special and no matter how good or smart or talented I am, I am at the mercy of chaos, tossed along some spasmodic dance around the ghost of a strange attractor.
At least maybe now I can write more.
*the literal being non-cancerous, woo-hoo!