Happy Fucking New Year.
Right before the Xmas break (during which I was at home with Max as he was out of school), the management at the printing company I work for informed us that they had filed for bankuptcy, and while their hope was to keep things status quo, there are no guarantees. As the low man on the totem, I would be the fat that any entity interested in buying them out would trim first. Exciting. And yet, this is only the day job.
My career (euphemistically speaking) as an actor might be considered up for sale, too. No fat to be trimmed. With the exception of a mock trial I'll be a witness for at the end of this month, there is nothing to look forward to. Nada. Nil. Niente. Niks. Zilch.
Happy New Year.