this isn't fun anymore.

I started this blog as a last-ditch effort to break into the world of writing.  Here in "the big city."  I thought that it would be as easy as typing up a few words here and there - "ate falafel with this guy from this band" or "chick from Bratmobile just got out of that taxi" - and people would flock to my words.

But really.  How many fucking music blogs are there out there?  And how many of them are written by corn-fed transplants like myself?  No self-respecting almost-30 year old should be courting page hits instead of making a living for themselves.  I moved up here because I thought that more people meant more stuff and easier access to that stuff.  I wouldn't even say that I got a rude awakening when I found out otherwise...it felt more like reality coming into my bedroom and shitting on my chest while I slept.

So you know what?  Fuck it.  Fuck paying $550 a month for a 10 x 12 bedroom.  Fuck $4 gallons of milk.  Fuck $4 gallons of gas.  Fuck not going out because I'm afraid of those people at the door - you know them: anorexic queens who spend their entire Sephora paycheck on flimsy haute couture rags so that they can feel superior to me and my roommate in our superbly put-together thrift store get-ups.  Fuck being afraid on the train at 2am.  Fuck having spent 6 years and $37,000 on a BA in journalism that is shaping up to be nothing more than the most expensive piece of paper I've ever bought.

I've had wonderful experiences and met great people up here, but me and the big city just don't mesh.  Example:  One weekend I met up with a bunch of my Mississippi friends in NYC.  We decided to go to The Boy's Room, a sleazy Alphabet City gay bar that had piss porn on the television and go-go boys standing on the bar and spreading their asses for dudes that looked like dads.  I didn't find this offensive at all - old hat for an antique of a gay barfly like myself - but it didn't take long for me to start feeling like a corn pone when the owner/manager/head jackoff of the bar started shit-talking all us Mississippians over the PA system.  Seriously.  He called out an entire crowd of Mississippians who were patronizing his disgusting bar.  We went across the street and saw ANGELA perform a couple of songs, but when we returned the manager/jag was still pissed that we...I don't know...existed.  So my friend Hillari, who was ripped as shit, grabbed a couple of beer bottles off of the bar and started smashing them on the fucking floor.  BAM, BAM, BAM, glass goes everywhere.  I was distracted by all the noise at this point, but my sister said that people were looking at her like she was the trashiest bitch in the world, but then again we weren't the ones facing the tough decision of "piss porn on the television or stranger's asshole in my face?"  Hillari's response was to do what a southern lady does - yell "fuck you!" and leave.

That's how I wish I could leave DC.  Smashing shit, screaming, and storming off out of the frustration of three years of struggle.  When you go to college you don't expect to graduate and then have something like this happen to you.  No one mentions "economic downturns" in ethics class.  I never saw this, what is currently the largest failure of my adult life, coming.  It used to be fun, even, searching for jobs and traipsing around in a brand new place.  Now it's all just concrete and others cars and no parking.  I'm angry enough to leave shards of glass all over this metropolitan area, enough to slice the feet of the department managers and HR directors who passed over my resume in favor of someone who wasn't from the south.  Or someone who graduated from a local university.  Or someone who's the child of one of their friends.

So instead of smashing a figurative beer bottle across the face of DC, I'm going to calmly walk up and say, "Well fine.  If you don't want me, then I don't want you," gather my purse and coat, and hail a taxi at the corner.  There are better bars out there with nicer management and more floor space.  But more importantly - why pay for a watery drink in a lousy bar when you can make a great one at home?  DC, you are the  pomegranate martini of my late twenties, and in five days I'll be drinking beer in my parents' backyard.  Here I come.