My professional career path has zigged as much as it’s zagged. Manual labor, administrative inundations, soul-siphoning corporate bidding — my mishmashed resume is as coherent as a toddler’s cry for his sippy cup.

But last year I became a full-time contributor to three print magazines, which has been as rewarding as I’d hoped. For the first time in some time, going to work doesn’t feel like colonoscopy prep.

And yet, I still dread Sunday nights.

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