Finger lickin good. My meatballs, that is. No, not those. Jesus. Nevermind.

I am so totally unhinged at the prospect of returning to work that I am going back to basics. Cooking is the cheapest form of therapy that I have come up with thusfar. You know, besides prescriptions. Those work too. But cooking is a close second. Unless you buy ingredients at Whole Foods. Then it is no longer cheap, but still therapeutic. Even better if you get a bottle of wine while you are there.

So today I am making meatballs. Which are, in and of themselves, very healing. And I would be drinking wine. Except I have to work tonight.

Work.

At the cafe.

I am not even going to bother linking back to the older posts, discussing and debating the decision to return. I am on the schedule. I am going to put on my big girl panties and go earn some fucking money.

However, I wouldn't want to go back without first declaring, in a very public way, that I do not feel good about this. I have a very bad feeling about this. This doesn't feel right to me. So if something goes very terribly wrong, do not let it be said that I went into this blythely. (Not that you would ever say that. I mean, obviously. We've been talking about it for, what, six fucking weeks?)

But if something happens, I will not be happy to hear a chorus of "I told you so" because *I* told *YOU* so. You have been given fair warning. This could be just fine, or this could be really terrible. I am risking it all, putting that cool, calm and collected, totally justified exit strategy I implemented with such grace and dignity, that single shining moment when I did The Right Thing, on the line - in order to make some money.

We can talk about my reasons for choosing to risk my self-respect for a few bucks, but what does it matter. God knows I have given my self-respect a good beating over the years. At least in this situation I'll be able to buy groceries.

Here. Have a meatball. Every little thing is going to be alright. Probably. Maybe not. But don't say I didn't warn you.

And on a positive note - if I ever leave again, it will not be so quietly, in such a dignified manner. Oh no. I will go out in a blaze of glory, with a volley of "Fuck YOU's" and perhaps a nasty letter to the editor. I am not ruling out a picket line. There may be mooning. I could get the roller girls involved. I'm just saying. It could happen.

So treat me right, you asshole. Because you only get one second chance. And you don't even deserve that one. And no, you can't have a meatball. You gotta earn that shit.