obsessively check your grammar, makes you come back with updated lists of why you shouldn't be demoted or fired, nonrenewed, disinvited, sent back- to-square-one-do-not-pass-go. (When nothing more can be found wrong, proofread for mechanics.) What doesn't kill you makes you cover one more hour or one more shift or one more long weekend—shouldn't it be compensation enough that it didn't kill you? And what doesn't kill you makes you harder to break the next time around, unless the sugar binges and emotional eating have made you dangerously soft and bloated. What doesn't kill you sometimes makes you do rash or foolish things like shout I quit! in the middle of traffic, or run away from everything you think your life has become without knowing where the hell you're going in the middle of the night— just that your lungs are about to burst but you feel alive in the cold, exhilarating air.