Home sweet....

... well, something. I admit it's nice to be home, but it's hard to get used to. I have stuff again. Lots of it. I can accessorize. I have lots of space in which to make a mess and no real reason to feel guilty about doing so. I don't have to search for the right converter plug for the wall outlet. I don't have to search for wall outlets, come to that. My hair dryer will probably work properly again. I have a cell phone. Not that it's gotten much use, save to call T-mobile and get myself a Hotspot account so I have wireless internet in Starbucks (that was easy to get used to, oddly enough). Most different of all, there's nothing new here. There are no new people. There are no places to go in the immediate vicinity to which I haven't already been. I suppose I could do one of those 'Houses of the Stars' tours for kicks, since that would be new, but I'd probably be massacred by the tourists on it after half an hour of snide remarks on how dumb I think tours like that are, because really, how else could I be expected to entertain myself?

Well, there is one thing I have to do while I'm here. Get myself the hell outta here. I understand this means that, at long last, I have to find myself a job. Scratch that, a career. Jobs are easy: I could go out and get myself a job tomorrow... it would probably involve wearing a Jamba Juice hat again (I always did think that was a cool-looking logo). If I wanted to raise my standards a bit and go white collar, I'm sure that wouldn't be too hard either. Again, though, I think I'm a bit overqualified. And when it comes to finding a job now, I've got this notion in my head that I should be doing something I actually like. It'll be an uphill battle, but I'm convinced that I'll eventually be able to find someone who will pay me to keep travelling around the South Pacific (I could be convinced to branch out to the North Pacific) while keeping myself up-to-date on everything that is happening on the O.C. Maybe Desperate Housewives, too. But reality TV is definitely out.

Until that happens, though, I have to play by the rules. Submit my resume. Write cover letters that show absolutely no trace of personality. Blackmail. Maybe a bit of begging thrown in (probably after I try and fail at blackmail). You know, the usual. Actually, all kidding aside, I really don't mind any of that stuff. Hell, blackmail's even kinda fun. But they're nothing in comparison with the fear that I'll do all that, with all the requisite research, over and over again, and nothing will happen. No one will call me. I'll still be sitting here in July, trying to think up a reasonable excuse why I shouldn't have to take over Steve's shift at Jamba Juice again this week, while wondering if maybe I'm setting my sights too high by applying for assistant manager.

Wish me luck. I think assistant managers get dental.