I have been in my home town for less than twenty four hours. In that time I have slept, slept, slept, felt like napping, slept, went to the grocery store because people are freaking out about the impending hurricane, slept, showered, applied to be a substitute teacher at my old middle and high schools, slept, trolled job postings and apartments, slept, and been reminded why the last time I technically lived “at home” was for a month and a half a year ago.
I’m ok with whatever job I get this winter. I would like it to be enough to cover my bills, but not so much time that I don’t have any to do other things I enjoy doing. I want a job that will allow me enough time to write and give me time to be a regular person. My main job, a.k.a. about four-six months of the year, is a fourteen hour workday at the site where you live. It’s intense. You form bonds and friendships with people really fast. You’ve known your best friends at these jobs for a grand total of six weeks some times. It’s crazy, but you get to live in really beautiful places where people pay small fortunes to live, for free. Fuck, you’re being paid to live there. And as much as I love it (minus moving every two to four months), it doesn’t give me enough time to write or read or explore other interests. That part is lame. This winter I’d like to have a job, but I would also like to do things like see plays and go to the Aquarium and travel a little bit. I’d like to live like other twenty seven year olds, give it the ol’ college try, or whatever it’s called.
Damn, I have no idea how to be a grown-up.