time, time, time, to, to, to, move, move, move

I stared at the words on the page. Phrases such as “man-to-man zone defense” and “only a vivid picture” dotted the text. It should amaze me that such a horrid worker of words has a job, but it doesn’t.

Once I was a writer for hire. A pen and a notepad always at hand.

Then one day I was cut loose. Deemed not economically viable. Like most, I wallowed in it for a little while. After that, I got off my butt and traveled. Spent months on the road, in planes, even on trains. It was the first extended vacation I’d ever had in my adult life – minus the New Orleans months. So, I partook.

After a while, I started to reconsider my goals. I decided to try and find a “new” career. One that would satisfy me and not be in an industry that’s fading away. It was fruitless. I got more rejection letters for jobs in the eight months or so of searching than I did when I was applying for internships as a college junior for the second time. But damn it if I didn’t persevere then. This time, I didn’t. I started applying for reporter and editor jobs again.

I got interview after interview. The first one, was at the beach. Near Nags Head, NC. Fucking perfect. I didn’t get the job. I did get a mileage check. First time for that.

Then it was a little town in North Carolina. Then a small town on the Tennessee/Virginia border. A shithole in Florida. A dungeon in Georgia. A weekend was spent in South Carolina and in North Carolina. About six and a half hours of driving between the two interviews. I wore the same suit. I wore the same shirt. I wore the same socks and shoes. I did change underwear.

I got offered all those jobs. And I turned all of them down. Except the last one.

I decided living at the beach was what I needed to do. Be alone for a bit. Don’t write newspaper stories, instead edit them. See how the other side lives. Also, get inside my head and do some cleaning.

Now, a little over two years later, I want to leave. Apathy is too high here. So high it hurts. Like altitude without the ear pops.

I see drunken leaders and timecard cheating editors. It’s sad.

I remember when everyone worked 50-60 hours and loved it. Now, you work 25 and try to skip out. I can’t bring myself to do it, but it’s tempting. And that’s why I know I have to leave.

Applying for jobs outside my “comfort zone” has been hard. I get no response from most. A canned response for most. A couple of almosts have kept me from going completely mad.

The road calls, I can’t answer it. Tied down right now. A house. A cat. Two dogs. I feel guilty for expressing that feeling, but it’s true. I won’t act on it. I know what’s important, even if it isn’t my sanity.

Some nights I want to drink myself into oblivion. Lucky for me, I can’t afford it.

The silence outside is upset by a lonely wailing cricket. Is he trying to get laid or does he want to be eaten by a spider? It’s a tossup, I believe.

“I need a love, to keep me happy,” Keith Richards sings. Hell, he’d know better than most. I need love too. It’s why I keep trying. If only I could figure out that whole garbage disposal that people so easily use.

“Cold, cold heart of mine

Just watch you cry

There wasn't much left to say

Nothing heartfelt anyway

So easy to just walk away
Tell me what that takes

Tell me what it takes
Cold, cold heart of mine

Just let it all die”

Lyrics. I put too much stock in them. That’s probably the most hated Lucero song, but the simple lyrics mean a lot to me. They make me feel less pain over what has happened in the past. Both to me, and by me.

If only I could move past the last bit of pain. It’s a hard one. I can’t get that look out of my head sometimes. And I don’t want to go through it again. It wouldn’t be possible to survive it. Oh course it would, physically, but not emotionally. And that’s what matters.

She’ll always be there for me. I know that. I want to be there for her. I’ve got to figure out how.

And I’ve got to figure out how to get out of this place.

Anyone want to open a taco wagon? Fuck, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Maybe my dad will open one with me. Guess I’d better make it a BBQ wagon. Or a BBQ Forerunner. …