So I'm in California, relatively no worse for the wear. It's fuckin' beautiful out here, if a little warm. The summer's gonna' be interesting, given my tendency toward not drinking water.
First and foremost, a lesson in irony. Hopeful youth leaves Indiana and all the people he loves there behind with a clean record, and arrives in California with a speeding ticket and pending U.S. District Court charge, the specifics of which I'm omitting for the sake of someone close to me. Granted, class A misdemeanors rarely culminate in anything but probation and fines, but federal involvement has got me massively spooked. After all, Uncle Sam is sneaky; who knows what he's packin' in those star-spangled shorts?
Legal difficulties aside, I've got an interview at a Starbucks tomorrow, a mental image that my brain flat refuses to form. Remmy Phoenix working at Starbucks. Can you say "Large, Tall or Vente, you pretentious yuppie fuck?", boys and girls? Because I imagine we'll find out soon enough if I can. Nah, it actually seems like a pretty decent job, as far as service gigs go. Now if someone would be so kind as to tell me exactly what the fuck a scone is, I think I'll be set.
Last, I'm broke. The speeding ticket cleaned out what little I hadn't spent on food, cigarettes, gas, and a bullet bracer that I had no one to tell me not to buy (shiny things be damned). It's cool, though; I'm pretty sure I'm still getting my disbursement from Ivy Tech. If that's the case, I'll be alright for at least a month or so. I guess the slim and skinny of it is that I'm alive, I'm not sleeping in my car, and most of all, I'm here in SoCal where I've dreamed of living since I was old enough to figure out that Pennywise kicks ass. Love at everyone who blew up my phone during the trip, and I still refuse to apologize for the message. I had to keep ya' a little worried, after all. Be good, folks. Phoenix out.
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