The root of all evil.

I’ve been thinking more and more about getting the hell out of L.A.

Pretty much since I’ve been here, I’ve been ready to leave. Its not that I have felt miserable for the last 2 years, nor do I feel I need to get out immediately. I simply know that my time in this city is nearing an end and I’d like to be prepared for a move when that situation presents itself.

Unfortunately, I accrued a significant amount of debt on this adventure in la la land, and my current job provides only enough income for me to eat and (usually) pay my bills. So, knowing how much a move ends up costing combined with my lackadaisical desire to stop burying myself in red ink, I’ve had to consider the possibility of getting… yeah, I know…

A real job.

Trouble with this little plan is that I am not really qualified to do anything. Sure I have a degree, but its in a useless field and most decent entry level jobs require as least some relevant experience. Not that I doubt my abilities; I’m a smart cookie and could probably fake my way through the initial stages of any job and pick up the finer points quick enough, but that doesn’t exactly read well on a résumé.

So maybe another part time job to fill the 30 or so hours a week I sit around doing absolutely nothing would be a better idea. I’d rather not get a second restaurant job, and I’d have to insist (given my age and education) that I be paid more than minimum wage. Plus the flexibility to take mini vacations, which will happen regardless of how broke I am.

Any ideas?

I write so I don't have to take pills.

Tonight I finished a book by a young man who used this site to blog about his experiences as a soldier in Iraq.

http://cbftw.blogspot.com/

His insights are fantastic and he now has more media attention than anyone really needs. Regardless, I often think that writing in a blog is exceptionally pointless but this kid really illuminates a subject that I, for one, have had very limited experience with. It has since reminded me that sometimes just that act of writing for whatever selfish or benign reason can not only be totally therapeutic but, more importantly, an unexpected source of inspiration or comfort to those who happen to read it.

Granted, writing about being shot at by insurgents may be slightly more legitimate than bitching about waiting tables.

Oh well.

On a separate note, I felt a real-deal earthquake tonight. A 4.5 about 8 miles away. The swimming pool was still sloshing around a minute later when I wandered outside to find other people and make sure I wasn’t just suffering from a stroke. Awesome.

On a separate, separate note-- I LOVE toasty bagels! You know I don’t just throw that word around… but good goddamn I’m fucking head over heals folks.

Sliced bread, eat your heart out.