Well, shortly after my first assignment/first day on the job as a general assignment reporter, I developed a wicked case of insomnia and a wretched, if-i-could-sleep-it would-keep-me-up-anyway-it's-so-bad, cough.
It might be the poor air quality due to all the smoke from the Governator's heroic speeches about dealing with the fires burning up everyone's ranchero-style homes in San Diego. Or it might be the drastic climate changes I keep putting my dear old body through, as I go from tropical to cold urban shoreline to dry hot dusty desert to air conditioned office. Who knows? Who cares?!
But strangely, after a couple nights of sweaty restlessness (by the way, there's no sex happening at the parents' house, folks--er, I mean, not any that I'm involved in... EW!) I started experiencing a kind of clarity of purpose.
It occurred to me that perhaps everything is actually going the way it's supposed to. Oh, certainly not according to my quick and easy plan:
1) I sacrifice EVERYTHING on Maui to move to San Francisco, where;
2) I get hired as a small-time writer in a bigtime city newspaper/newsweekly/magazine/website, and;
3) I make tons of dough and lots of new friends and have tons of great sex and in a few years, New York beckons. Then, the world...
Apparently, I missed a few steps between 1) and 2). Like:
a) I freeze my ass off from day one and can never shake the cold unless I am wearing my old college hoody sweatshirt, full thermal bodysuit, two pairs of wool socks and my thick, ratty black terrycloth bathrobe, which is all the time, because;
b) I am unemployed for the better part of three months, despite sending out seemingly endless resumes and cover letters everyday to every publication I can find, and even an occasional university sleep research lab where they stick electrodes on you and watch you sleep. Yeah, I applied to do that... But I figured I had nothing better to do, because;
c) I can have no fun since my reserved funds are tapped out after the first month, my friends stop coming around because they're too busy working their asses off to survive in the big city themselves (and possibly because I am always wearing that fucking robe). But somehow (because I am a girl) I do manage to score a few spare nights of hot sex (because it helps in downtimes like these), although I am reminded that even hot sex with hot strangers (even if they are nice strangers who are not so strange) is not as hot as hot sex with someone you love, or even just like a whole lot--i.e. I am reminded that I am, yet again, single. And, when you're cold, broke and in thermal underwear, that means very, very A-L-O-N-E.
d) I run to mummy and daddy's house as a last resort.
e) I get hired as a small-time writer in a bigtime, small town newspaper, where I learn lots, mainly about my own flexibility and openness, before;
[CONTINUE TO #2...]
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