The subhead to this post, if my site allowed me to have subheads, would be: I’m baaaaack!

I have news, and I’m so excited to finally share it.

I have a new job. After five years working for an all-boys Catholic college prep school, I’m moving on. I have so loved my time there, and have been given much more than I gave. I’ve learned about faith, humility, obedience and stability from Benedictine monks, who are pretty remarkable examples for that stuff. I’ve learned how funny and talented and driven teenage boys can be. I’ve learned how to be a better colleague from the best coworkers in the world. All of these things added up to make my journey remarkable, but over the past school year I’ve decided that my time there has come to an end. It is regrettable, but necessary.

I have a contract position as a writer for a global company, returning to my storyteller roots. In my new role, I’ll be…wait for it…writing. That’s it. As you can imagine, this makes me exceedingly happy. I don’t have to give presentations, or make and reconcile budgets, or be the face of anything. I don’t have to sit through endless meetings where two people discuss something for 20 minutes that the other six of us don’t need to hear. (Okay, I might get stuck in those, because everyone gets stuck in those.) Perhaps best of all, I don’t have to discuss closing the school at 4:45 a.m. on a snowy morning, and then record a perky message to go out to hundreds of people, smashing hopes and dreams to smithereens by announcing a late start instead of a full snow day. (I was always so tempted to start those messages with, “Don’t kill the messenger. I didn’t make The Call, even though I’m making this call. Trust me, I’d rather stay home all day, too.”)

All I have to do is talk to people and write. Heaven.

What also makes me happy is this: I get my voice back, in all its expletive-laden glory. I get to write again for my blog without worrying that someone who is offended by my words is going to call my boss and complain (which happened). I get to say things like, “I think the archbishop made a bullshit decision when he went after Girl Scouts,” and “Yes, I firmly believe that LGBT people deserve all the same rights as the rest of us. All of them,” and “I am appalled and embarrassed by the person currently making a mockery of the highest office in the country.” I get to celebrate She Persisted and Nasty Women. Hell, I might even buy myself a pantsuit.

And – this is probably my most favorite part – I get to curse again. I can drop an f-bomb any time I want. Although, to be honest, I don’t really drop f-bombs just for the hell of it. It’s a powerful word and should be used strategically. Although it may not seem that my use of the f-bomb – a word that is flexible enough to function as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb…how fucking cool is that? – is strategic, I do think about when and where I use it. It is a mighty word, and with might comes great responsibility. Oh, dearest f-bomb. Welcome home, my beloved.

I’m wrapping up my old job this week and part of next, doing everything I can to leave my colleagues in the best possible place. The last thing I want is for my friends to be cursing my name after I’m gone, although I’m sure sometimes it’ll be inevitable. (I recommend using the f-bomb, guys. It’s cathartic.) Then we’re spending some time on vacation, this one involving a beach and a bar and no set schedule for anything.

And then? Then…I write.

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