And So It Goes

My air conditioner is broken. Well, not so much broken as it is still cranking out air. The fact that it keeps the house at a balmy 82 degrees despite my sincerest efforts to make it do otherwise is where the a.c. unit and I are having quarrels. Something is amiss when the thermometer outside reads at least five degrees cooler than that on the inside. I'm sweaty, wearing only what my modesty asks that I keep on, and am not above seducing the neighbors to steal a few moments of cooler air.

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Just, read five minutes ago, got home from my week in God's Country, read San Francisco. Despite my hours and hours, read four or five, of preparation and searching, I have returned jobless yet not hopeless. My mother, on the other hand, returned confirmed in her anti-Mandy-moving-across-the-country position. I was sad to leave, even more so when I learned that the trip home would not only take me back to this God-forgotten hell hole but would take over 24 hours to complete due to "technical malfunctions," read because the people at Delta failed to get their shit together. Walked in the door to find that my roommate had turned the a.c. down below 60, left ice cream melting on the counter and had failed to move the trash bag she placed on the doorstep over two weeks ago. My parents are looking to evict her, I am beginning to support them in that decision. The trip, though, was absolutely fantastic, filled with those moments that remind me why I'm moving there in 2 months. The men there are of a different breed than those who inhabit this city. In California, men love me, they gaze longingly in my direction, they oncemeover as I walk past them down the street, they buy me drinks and approach me in bars and, most of all, they make me feel beautiful. I left them and everything else, regretfully and with a crick in my neck from watching the city disappear from sight out of the tiny plane window. Only two more months, it'll fly by. Right?
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