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About one year ago, at the end of December 2009, I quit my state job to work at a burrito joint. I took a massive pay cut and lost my fairly high (for my age and experience) standing on the social ladder. This is just another story about how I chose happiness over money, how I don't regret it, and how, somehow, a burrito place kinda changed my life.

I worked at the State Archives of Florida for three years, cumulatively. I took about a year off to deal with school and depression and keep my head above water. When I decided to go back, I felt more than blessed that they took me back. It was a quiet job. I spent countless hours making countless copies for lawyers, law-makers, geneaologists, students. The State Archives of Florida are a repository for the Senate and House, a goldmine for geneaologists and Civil War enthusiasts, anthropologists, archaeologists, lawyers, History Fair students, homeless people wanting access to free computers. My boss Miriam was a member of the SCA, the Society for Creative Anachronism, which means she and her husband dressed in medieval/renaissance garb and learned to fence for the sake of recreating a simpler life. My other boss Boyd was a trekkie with a doctorate in Civil War history, focusing on Florida and its governors. Their boss was a silver-haired lesbian named Jody whose wife was named Judy. No one questioned me or my eccentricities. I didn't question theirs.

After years of making copies, watching that bright green light move back and forth until I caused irreparable damage to my retinas, dealing with Miriam's silent grudges if you countered or disagreed with her, with Boyd's underhanded and patronizing comments, after breaking up with my first love and losing my identity, I was worn. I didn't want the quiet of the Archives any more, I didn't want to deal with the geriatrics coming in, the Daughters of the Revolution telling me of their ancestors from the Czech Republic, the 8th generation Floridians that used to have great plantations in the panhandle where their great great grandfathers treated their slaves better than those weird folks that lived the next plantation over. I didn't want to wear office clothes anymore, deal with the bureaucracy of the State system, of benefits that I didn't qualify for because I was part time, of putting my septum piercing into my nose, of having a serious job, one that I could turn into a career, one I could stay at for 15 years like Miriam, and develop heel spurs and a ridiculous knowledge of the patient records of a closed down asylum from the 1950s whose records ended up in the Archives' possession rather than be burned or thrown out. I wasn't ready to be an adult. I didn't have a lot of friends because I didn't have a way to meet people outside of my classes, and I hated those kids anyway because Anthropology kids seem to think they're better than everyone else because Anthropology is the study of man not aspects of them. I was unhappy. So I quit. I gave the Archives negative one day's notice that I couldn't work their anymore, sorry, I have a scheduling conflict with my classes, school's more important, I hope this doesn't burn bridges, and of course I'll visit. I didn't have a scheduling conflict with my classes at all. And I haven't been back since.

So I started working at a burrito place. I started working with kids my age, that partied, and I met new friends. I'm more social now, and do things I never ever ever pictured myself doing. Along with that, though comes self-reflection and doubt. Who am I, really? Did I always like going to football games but never did because none of my friends liked to go and I didn't want to go alone, or am I suddenly going with the flow, going along with the crowd for the first time in my life? Is my personality fading into something generic, am I becoming one of the many faceless college students I see every day, that I serve tacos and burritos and spicy nachos to? What right do I have to call them faceless? Who have I become? Have I really let a burrito job completely upheave my life? I take pictures of myself, all emo-style, making faces that I think look good. I take advantage of boys' willingness to buy me drinks, then leave them at the bar like the bitch I think I'm becoming. Every night, after the parties are over and the bars are closed and I've chugged a glass of water to fight off the hangover I know is coming and I'm just barely sober enough to think straight, I replay what I can remember of the night, and regret it. I ask myself, Why why why WHY did I do that? Why did I say that? Why didn't I talk to him, why did I hug her, I hate that girl, why did I buy them drinks, I can't afford it, why did I wear that, why oh why did I drive home, and why did my friends let me?