it's not you, it's me

Image: The Book of Bunny Suicides

My disdain for San Francisco has been so steadily growing that I fear it's starting to become a defining characteristic of my personality. If it carries on this way, I'm going to be the crotchety, old cat lady before I'm either old or have cats. Not a great look. Which means I have two choices: develop a more positive attitude or move. Fine, three choices. If the third is "continue to sulk."

But here's the thing. As much as I bitch and moan about missing my family and friends, and there being practically no social scene here that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out with compostable forks, I'm totally in love with my boyfriend who's really not in any position to transfer at the moment. How's that for setting back the feminist movement a few decades? It's just that, well, I'll say it, I love love. I'm not too proud to be trite. For me, a satisfying romantic relationship with someone whom you adore and who adores you right back for just who you are is--while somewhat nauseating for the general public--an absolute fucking gift.

And then, there's my other foil. Somehow, after all of the seeming missteps in my budding career, I finally have a job I like. One that I like more than just a little bit. For me, that's saying something. So what does one do when one has ticked two of the very big life boxes, but something still feels off? Well, one takes to her blog and finds reasons to justify her unrest. But how long can that go on without realizing that you're just being a big sorry sack? In fact, I'm actually beginning to get a little sick of myself. How must the rest of you feel? 

So, I won't go as far as to say that I'm putting a stake in the ground here or anything, but I'm at least thinking about making more of an effort. Because I'm not going anywhere any time soon. And what's the worst that could happen? I might like it. Oh, the horror. The next time any of you see me, feel free to put me in a headlock. God knows, I deserve it.