I'm floored by your sound

I often worry all my pregnant friends might choose to name their babies one of my favourite names.  I shall have to cut all ties and find new friends.

Be irrational in all that shit you love.

Oh, what a night it was, six months to the day, that we drank baby bourbon and my home became his.

It’s cold isn’t it?
I’ve been over thinking a lot this week.  It’s what I do.  I started my new job, and in doing so, I found I have a bit more letting go of my old job to be doing.  
The day before I started, I spent the day baking for some CANeat thing.  It took freaking ages, and one element went wrong, meaning I had to go to the supermarket to restock.  Bought a bunch of stuff which prompted the nice checkout lady to ask me if I was a baker.  I sort of froze.  
I guess not, anymore.  
I used to quite like being asked about what I did.  I often thought it was nice that they’d care enough to ask.  Even towards the end, when I was way less proud than I wanted to be, it sounded good. 
I remember when I first started the bakery before we even had a name yet, a team of us went down to London to do some ‘research’.  They were all new to me, and they were all new to eachother as a team.  All they talked about is work.  I met Jon for the second time… he wanted to know what I did in my last job.  I wanted to know where his accent was from.  He wanted to know what I did before that.  I wanted to know where he lives now.  He wanted to know what I did before that.  I wanted to know how old his daughter was.  He wanted to know why I didn’t ask him what he did for a living.  I told him it was because I imagined work was the least interesting thing about him.  He said that actually, it was interesting.  OK.  It sort of was.  But I liked the stories about his daughter, his cats, his embarrassing stories from when he was younger far more.
It’s not that I’ve changed my mind.  I don’t judge anyone by what they do or their job title.  More than that, I fully don’t care.  I’m not sure when I let so much of my identity became defined by what I did.  
Maybe I’m just sad that I don’t get to call myself a baker any more.  
Maybe I can defend it by baking more.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. 
Asking people what they do has become small talk.  Shittest small talk ever.  I’m going to start asking people about what they love.