And... I'm back. To the suffocating ease of living in a house full of couches. Back to having choices and being annoyed with little things. Back to looking at Craigslist and Monster and the Post Bulletin as if there is actually something there for me to do to fill my time. Back to managing my adult (ha) life from the cockpit of my parents' basement. Back to my perfect future.
Every other day I come up with something crunchy or poisonous I want to blog about; the selfishness of the early morning chair claimers in Cancun, the immaturity of an 18 year old on spring break, the disappointment of an OK experience, the greater disappointment of the experience of being an unappreciated leader. The ultimate disappointment of not feeling qualified to work in any job and the combined self-loathing of the moneylessjobless endless days of half-purpose. But I just don't know if writing for the sake of my ideas being tangible is worth the trouble it might cause me. But I want to do it. I'm warning you; I might do it.
On the other hand, I have a future. It just seems like it won't start for awhile. I've somehow retained the childlike idea that the future is some bubble up ahead that I'll enter with more security and knowledge and purpose than I have now. Unfortunately for 12 year old Amy, the future is in one minute, 6 hours, tomorrow, and I enter with nothing more than I have now, and somehow that's supposed to be enough.
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