Slowly phasing into my new full-time job: I'm known internally as a "tester," but I spend most of my time proofing. My official title is "proofreader," and that kicks ass.

(I finally understand the distinction between editing and proofing: at the Lawrentian, I edited articles before Layout assembled the paper, and then I proofed the final product. The word "leading" — pronounced, but not usually spelled, "ledding" — has become a very valuable component of my vocabulary. The descriptivist in me thinks "ledding" would be better all around, c.f. "lede," and plans to switch soon.)

I haven't gotten to the meat of the job yet, but so far work itself has been enjoyable. The dress code is a sort of Thanksgiving-casual, and I spend most of my day in my cubicle, listening to music and looking over whatever it is I edit.

I lowered my piecework allotment for the other job, but I still have about an hour or two of editing to do when I get home each day. The idea was that, if this new job turned out to be unenjoyable, I would still have a bit of editing to keep me sane.

Looking forward to money and insurance and all that. On Thursday night, I went to a bar (The Independent) with Graham and Jenna and did not feel guilty about that at all.