Maybe I suck; but I'll be back

Fortune cookies lie to us. Those little rectangular slips of paper impart nothing but vaguely encouraging but highly unlikely possibility. And we know it.


They never read, "That cough might be cancer," "the newspaper industry has lost its way," or "you'll struggle to maintain a barely middle-class existence." That might kill business at the Golden Dragon, anyway.

But after I'd indulged in a First Workless Monday of the Rest of My Life wallow at my local Chinese place, almost exactly 72 hours after my editor at the St. Petersburg Times called me into a boardroom, told me I was doing well, was liked, bright and laid off effective now, the little gem above was the first thing I'd smiled at in awhile.

I've been heartened every day since by the literally dozens of emails, texts and calls from my friends. I thank you all very much for that.
Sadly, I still find myself right in the sweet spot of the rage phase - depression and acceptance are getting impatient - which might explain how I was able to power-wash the back deck in record time this morning. The garage may need sweeping again, now that I think about it. And the rake still isn't hanging right.
I'll resist the urge to lash out. I'll save that for late-night beer bottle-throwing against the fence.
But I'll say this: that fortune cookie goddamn nailed it. See you soon.