Total elapsed time from the beginning of my first conversation with my father about getting laid off to his first mention of how I should go to Law school: Under five minutes.

Total number of times I slowly and clearly repeated to him, “I am not going to Law school” during the same conversation: At least ten.

Well, at least the uncertainty is pretty much gone: If the strike’s not settled by the end of next week, then next Friday’s my last day.

At least I got the courtesy of a warning so I can get my shit together both physically and financially, unlike the last time I got canned.

It sucks, but I’m getting paid for two more weeks than the entire crew and most of the production office, so I’m still in a better position than most.

And now, to try and trim the nonexistent fat out of my budget…