I realized the other day that I don't know where the hell this year has gone. Well, that's a lie, I know where it went, but it's been a blur. Most of the months of this year were spent being happily wrapped up with Chris, so there was very little else to focus on. It just sort of whirled by. I guess I should be happy about that, and I am, but... it feels like a whole lot of time just *poof!* gone.
I moved. Again. Did I mention that? In 2007 I have lived in three different places. Four if you count my month-long stop-over with Selena at her place. Jesus, I move a lot. So now we're in this house for a year, and then... who fucking knows. Not I... My roommate Erin has a friend named Jay. He refers to us as the Real World PDX house. Seven of us live here: there Dimitri, our crazy Russian, who works at REI and loves watching Discovery and having positive energy moments with whoever is around; Philip, my best-red-headed friend, who works as a chimney sweep by day, plays music with the band by night, and got his masters in communication; Joy, who just got back from Honduras on a Fulbright, promptly had her car stolen (from the library), and makes ridiculous amounts of ethnic food (which I love); Erin, who is the oldest member of the house, was recently canned by ClifBar as an events/marketing agent, and snowboards at every available opportunity (which has been more and more frequent since the getting-fired); Quita, Erin's chihuahua, who shakes a lot and likes to drag stuff out of the trash; Toufer, my cat, who rarely leaves my room, unless he needs to eat or go use the litterbox; and finally, me. And you know plenty about me.
The first three smoke ridiculous amounts of weed, Erin drinks like a sailor, and I bake a lot. Oh goodness, having a full-size kitchen is like having heaven right downstairs. My KitchenAid no longer has to live in it's box. I have a fridge, stove, oven, pantry, counter space... in the first week I baked three cakes. Yes, three. Partly due to the fact that three of the roommates had birthdays right in that time-frame, and baking birthday cakes is what I do. But in reality, it was more for me than for them.
And now here I am, settling into a big old house with a whole lot of roommates who constantly have a whole lot of friends over, and we have had some great parties, and our Christmas tree is oh-so pretty. I'm quite happy with where things have finally settled. Who knows what will happen in the next couple of months, but for now... I figure I'll just enjoy where I'm at.
always.....
A room with a view (of some fine Frank Lloyd Wright design)
So, I wrap up some last-minute work, hand off some stuff on my to-do list to coworkers and hop on a plane. Ms. Kim was kind enough to drive me to the airport in a fucking typhoon. She's so fucking wonderful.
Anyway, on the way to the airport, my throat kind of starts to hurt. I pass it off as being parched as I worked my way through security. Even though I was totally clean, it still makes me nervous -- muscle memories from being a young punk, I suppose. Plus, fuck the police. Right?
I board the plane and get my ass down to San Francisco. I land, get my bags and take a $50 taxi to the hotel. As I get dropped of, I realize that this hotel is fancy. Really fancy. Fancy as fuck. So fancy, in fact, that I felt like the people behind the counter probably thought I won some sort of contest.
The most glorious hotel bathroom ever / cliche myspace shot
Anyway, by this point, my throat is on fire and I'm hungry. I haven't been to San Francisco since I was about 14 and sadly, I didn't pay much attention to details back then. I find some food and a drugstore. At this point, I'm totally sick. I feel like shit. I drop $30 on all the cold remedies that I conveniently didn't bring with me. I walk, shivering, back to my room. I fall asleep in the most comfortable bed I've ever been in. Glorious.
Thanks for the reminder, dick.
The rest of the week is filled with highlights of good food and training, all while severely doped up cough syrup. I even got to meet up with one of my old CS buddies who works down there now. It was a fucking blur of a trip.
Open-shutter takeoff.
During the flight back, I felt like my head was going to pop. Sinus pressure to the max. I still haven't totally recovered. Weird.
Beyond that, life is good, albeit going by really quick. Work was insane this week and I'm still trying to wrap up all of my christmas shopping / gifting.
Not much more to say. I love you all.
hrmmm
1. It's in LA
2. The girls cant get naked cuz they serve alcohol.
3. You have to tip more (cuz its LA, even though they dont get naked. Talk about opposite land).
Anyway, later I got high off of smoking the drug that is called Marijuana. Then I went to a place called The Rustic, which is on Hillhurst. When we were there, I realized that The Rustic is the ugliest bar in LA. The actual bar itself isnt ugly, its the people that populate it. Im not sayin ugly in the superficial way either, Im talking, factual scientific researchhas proven it to be a true fact, sort of ugly. The most attractive girl at the bar was the waitress, and i think she was only good looking cuz she seemed to have nice boobs. We quickly realized that the girls that were getting the most attention were the girls who seemed to have spent some time getting ready to go to the bar. These were the fat girls in the bar. Yeah, I know, I just came right out and said it. I bet our waitress has really nice boobs though.
THE END