cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- and how big does this fish have to be to feel like its almost company. I applied for a job as a "strategic science communicator" for a entomology/forestry lab at the University of Florida. Pays $60k. Not bad. Instant reply, they were interested. Now I have a proper interview set for late Monday morning. So I could be moving to Gainesville, Florida. Looks pretty much like Charlottesville, only with less drama and more alligators and warmer weather. I will fucking take that. I'm drooling over this. The work looks interesting and they love my CV and background. Do science shit all day long, instead of researching neo-Nazis like I've been doing for the last year. Nobody trying to kill me, check. Actual place where I live on my own and exist as I please, check. Enough income to buy anything at the grocery store that I want to eat, check. I don't know anyone in Gainesville, Florida. And that is fine. I make friends quickly. They have weird fish to catch and birds I've barely even heard of and it's a world full of people who are not necessarily political radicals and I can just go to work and be useful to people and then COME HOME TO AN ACTUAL HOME and exist like a real human being. I fucking hate this life that I'm glued to here. I fucking hate it and I want to leave. The fishing is good but nothing else is. I'm isolated by poverty and fear of dragging my friends into shit where they become targets. The fishing is good wherever I am because I'm pretty good at fishing. And I want to get the fuck out of here and move to Florida. There is nothing here for me. There is nothing and nobody here for me. I have been waiting to leave for the last few months. I see nobody. I don't go out. I cease to exist. I wait for the ticket and the relocation package. I go cat-fishing on Saturday nights, alone, with my back and elbow ground down into the dirt of the river bank and the headlamp on my forehead staring down the river bank below and I wait for that bite that I have worked for and maybe earned. Saturday night. There is a nightclub, pulsing a mile away. There is a bar with a beer named after me where they are toasting my name. I have no money to join them. I'm grinding down into the mud and it is Saturday night and at least I have a bite and how big does this fish have to be to feel like its almost company. And this is where I am. And is this everything? Two thin streams of dark red blood mingle from my hand into the muddy brown stream below. 2:17 a.m. - 2018-07-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||