On youth, the disease from which we all recover.
It's just that Mom told me I'd have to come stay out here for a month while I make the transition. Put my things in storage and wait until the new apartment's ready. Maybe get a job. Possibly start paying my own bills. Possibly die.
A month in the same place I was firmly and begrudgingly and stupidly planted until the age of 16? Well, ok, not so bad in theory. It's not like I don't enjoy visiting. It's not like I hate it out here. So much. But a month? When I finally caved, it came on like a death sentence.
Shannon calls Fresno the "Big Waiting Room." I call it the Emerald Fucking City when you're an hour away from there and can't just run down to Vons for bread, much less stock up on Fleur-5 and Paul Mitchell Super Skinny from the beauty supply store.
Surprisingly, despite the weather and the Cold Turkey Five I'm lamenting from trying to quit smoking and eating so much of my grandma's cooking, it hasn't fucked me up all that much. Varies. Sometimes it's unbearable, like when pea soup fog and shitkickers make it seem like even Paris and Nicole had it better. Sometimes I sleep all day because I know it isn't going to get any more exciting than watching James and the Giant Peach with Sebastian three times in a row. Sometimes I hop into my car and drive into town on a whim. Sometimes my uncles come over with tequila and Mexican rodeo videos, and I'm happy just watching guys get thrashed about and gored by wild bulls.
Runs in the blood, I say.
In the dregs of civilization until the first of the month, but until I'm settled into my new place, the three-year-old nipping at my heels keeps me relatively sane. No pun intended.
A month in the same place I was firmly and begrudgingly and stupidly planted until the age of 16? Well, ok, not so bad in theory. It's not like I don't enjoy visiting. It's not like I hate it out here. So much. But a month? When I finally caved, it came on like a death sentence.
Shannon calls Fresno the "Big Waiting Room." I call it the Emerald Fucking City when you're an hour away from there and can't just run down to Vons for bread, much less stock up on Fleur-5 and Paul Mitchell Super Skinny from the beauty supply store.
Surprisingly, despite the weather and the Cold Turkey Five I'm lamenting from trying to quit smoking and eating so much of my grandma's cooking, it hasn't fucked me up all that much. Varies. Sometimes it's unbearable, like when pea soup fog and shitkickers make it seem like even Paris and Nicole had it better. Sometimes I sleep all day because I know it isn't going to get any more exciting than watching James and the Giant Peach with Sebastian three times in a row. Sometimes I hop into my car and drive into town on a whim. Sometimes my uncles come over with tequila and Mexican rodeo videos, and I'm happy just watching guys get thrashed about and gored by wild bulls.
Runs in the blood, I say.
In the dregs of civilization until the first of the month, but until I'm settled into my new place, the three-year-old nipping at my heels keeps me relatively sane. No pun intended.