It's been nearly a year since I moved from borderline white trash to hollow mediocrity.
It's been even longer since I've posted; I feel a touch of mental constipation from the neglect.
Just a flash of an existential cramp.
But you know, you've got to smoke that shit off.
(HA! If only it were quite that easy.)
My neglect is due to the selfish tendency to want to deny one's worst mistakes, to the inability to resist the temptation to spin the story to remove my character of that weighty blame.
But I'm not a character. I'm an actual person.
I'm only now understanding that I am not a character in a book.
I moved to Austin and wasn't able to give anyone much notice.
Because I do have an at least sardine-sized soul, I am able to feel bad about that. It nags at me like a recurring ingrown hair along my bikini line, the elastic of my panties rubbing against this tender, swollen, unsexy ingrown hair.
But I was drowning in debt and this job paid significantly more so it was hard to pass up.
Whatever. This isn't the first time people have ferociously loathed me.
Realistically, it won't be the last.
Like my adoptive brother always says, "If you're not pissing some people off, you're doing it wrong."
#28 - Move to a new city with no place to live and give everyone - including yourself - three days notice max.
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