Relocation

I would love to type vivid sentence fragments about an adventure that I am about to embark upon now that I am in the Golden State of California. I would love to let my fingers stray across keys like, “saving manta rays” or “back country snowboarding.” But with a checking account balance of $-145.00, I have moved to California—like the migrant fruit pickers of my heritage—to work, to get my hands dirty, to stretch the patience of my sanity and of my family’s hospitality.

With no interviews offered and no hours assigned with my security company in Colorado, I swallowed my pride and called my dad. “Hey, how are you? Good, good, glad to hear that. Hey I was wondering if …”

Leaving my fiancée and medical bills in Colorado, I moved two suitcases into a bedroom that shares a bathroom with my parents and I will be here for a month. This is not a defeat but a relocation of my downward spiral.

I have promoted myself to Assistant Manager of the Shipping and Receiving Department, it is a smaller department containing two twenty-three year old college dropouts, myself included. There is a sign posted near my desk; it reads “No Exit.”

Resolution 2: Postponed.

P.S. I forgot to pack any shorts.
P.S.S. Now that I work for and commute with my dad, he can use the High Occupancy/Commuter Express traffic lane but he has yet to thank me. I should mention this when he drives me to work tomorrow.