I pride myself on being totally independent. Of friends. Of family. Especially from men. I've never been the kind of girl that gets a boyfriend and loses herself and stops seeing her girls or working out or going to (insert hobby here) class. But since I've recently departed the DC area for what I fear will be an endless two and a half months of familial and work pursuits, it occurs to me I may have a dependency problem when it comes to my city. And The East Coast. And Yankee Bitches. Its kind of pathetic, but I don't know if I can truly be me and exist anywhere else. I'm too cranky. And angsty. And misomaniatic.And I have complete writer's block here in NoCal. Maybe because there aren't any toxins in my water and the air is too fresh. The weather is too fine and the inhabitants too relaxed. It makes me nauseous.
It's not that I don't have a million gazillion and one things to write about...
Par example: = the going away party that twenty of my friends threw me this past Tuesday night which ended in me getting kicked out of strip club. Epic...win.
Perhaps I should rant and rave and bitch and moan without end about the fact that I've now been in California (temporarily I promise) for 4 days now and I already miss the angst and meanness and black clothes and cell phone reception of DC so much that I am only one more woven-skirt wearing, vegan hippie away from taking a baseball bat to a headshop or voluntarily allowing dairy cows to trample over my soon-to-be mangled dead body on a fog laden road rounding the hills abutting Dillon Beach.
But I digress.
All I know is...I miss home. I know I should be excited to be young and experience new things and new people and new food and new shops and new sites. And I know my wanderings and explorations have an expiration date not too far into the future. But I already long for the broken down Red Line that is sure to smell like rich boy piss after the long drunken Labor Day weekend and taxi drivers that cut you off within an inch of your worthless, recession-reject of a life, then give you the finger as if it were your mistake.
Ahhh...to be where where the know-it-all politicos preach, the H-street hipsters dawn designer plaid and the G-town fratties flaunt their douchery daily- all deliciously melted into one steamy, hot and humid, miserably pretentious, wonderful place I call home.
