I had honestly almost forgotten that this blog existed. Truly. I only have about six followers so far, and you all know me, but in the event that some hapless stranger stumbles upon this blog, I'll point out that I've recently moved to Seattle. I've been so busy over the last three months with relocating and all the attendant agonies that I haven't had any time to post, or really even give a shit.
Leaving Minnesota was hard. It was hard on me, and it was hard on my family. But when I got a job in Seattle and the opportunity to start over, I jumped. Some would say without thinking. I admit it was done hastily. I still have unfinished business in Minnesota, and I'll get around to it eventually. But at the time, getting out was all that mattered. Minnesota was killing me. Going from one dead end job to the next, struggling financially, and moving every six months was taking it's toll. As is characteristic of me any time I find myself sinking into the morass of late summer Minnesota related depression, I was becoming increasingly alienated from my friends. I was broke. I was fucking miserable. Suicide was looking like a real option, and not in the high school sense. I legitimately wanted it to be done. I didn't have a lot of fight left in me. Someone once said that if you're desperate enough to kill yourself, you're desperate enough to stow away on a container ship bound for Hong Kong and take your chances, and that's basically what I did.
Then I lost my job in Seattle two weeks after moving here.
The ride out here was intense. As a younger man, I thought nothing of jumping into a friends car with a change of clothes and a couple of hundred bucks, destined for parts unknown. But I was driving solo across the country for the first time in my life, behind the wheel of a leaky ass, busted old Dodge that was almost as old as I was, with my dog and a cargo of books and clothes. It should have been a grand adventure, but it was the loneliest three days of my life. I asked myself the whole way if I was doing the right thing, plunging, as I was, headlong into an uncertain future. The weather was atrocious, my brakes were bad, and I had just enough money to get me there. I had no contingency plan for what would transpire if I broke down somewhere in Montana. By some miracle (or perhaps by the magic of the knit Cthulhu doll that my friend Tammy made me and I used as a dashboard ornament) I made it out here. After unloading my truck I realized that some of my prized books had been destroyed in the rain, but no matter. I soldiered on.
Then, the lay off.
I love Seattle, but one thing the locals have warned me about is the difficulty of meeting people. I'm finding it to be true. I have thirty dollars to my name and no friends to speak of, but I'm hoping against hope that I can either find a job within the next week or qualify for unemployment, which looks dubious at best. In the meanwhile I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month, an experience which is both a blessing and a curse. It gives me something to do while I vainly check my g-mail every five minutes, hoping that someone has taken an interest in one of the thousands of applications I've sent out. On the flip side it's frustrating and I feel like I'm going nowhere with the narrative.
My brain is melting.
I promise a more detailed account of my adventures soon.
It's been a long three months. The longest of my life, perhaps.
Now give me a job.