Here’s the thing; we are closer to moving now than we have ever been since our arrival in BFE. I’m excited. It makes things like hating my job and being surrounded by idiots almost tolerable. Yet, I’m a little saddened by the thought that so much of what I wanted to do with my life is based here- not there (as yet undisclosed location of pending move). Sure, the new place has a thriving scene of art, theater, writing and music. It may be even easier for someone with my sickening amount of talent (take that how you will) to get a break. I can move there and work my butt off to make it big enough to move back here. Ironic isn’t it? The main difference of course would be that having to move here would mean I have reached a level of success and not having to live in a rented room in the back of a meth lab. So there’s that.
And that is why I do pathetic things like plead with Zach Braff on his blog to please realize the genius that is me or spend hours a day sending my exact whereabouts to Gawker.com.
It is the passion within that has me listening to Joshua Radin on itunes and drinking a glass of port while I pretend to write the next great American novel, but really all I do is manage my tournament brackets and dream of miracle cures to things like the cruel paradox that is impending baldness and excessive body hair.
We are close to moving away, but my dreams are not moving on.