Every doubt that was aired by friends/acquaintances in regard to my decision to move prior to my move to K-town was proved of its merit in these past weeks. Small papers aren't safe. Big skills don't transfer to small venues. I did waste my time. I'm still wasting it. Bollocks.

A few days ago, I ever-so-slowly wheeled my hot girlfriend's convertible out of a parking structure on a Saturday night blasting the music. This event completed something in me that I never knew needed reconciliation and always hoped would be reconciled. I recommend you try it, even without the convertible.

A temporary job may soon be in my future. I dislike this move so much that I may just get a couple of ordinary jobs to make ends meet until I can be rid of my lessor in December. A temp job, and maybe, a fond (overdue) farewell to journalism.

Sentimental Sunday

I like the idea of a consolidated newsroom about as much as I like a cock in the ass, which is very little. It seems like a temporary answer to a situation from which the true downfall is far from conclusive. Nevertheless, individuals like me will always be wound up in the process, like flotsam and jetsam tossed around in the breakers still pretending to be a whole sailboat about to dock.

As will always occur, it seems, a decision between what I truly desire to do and what is the safer bet presents itself. Before, I've chosen a journalism education over a tumultuous life on a golf course's maintenance staff; I've chosen a solid job across the country over a rocky start-up in a coffee shop venture. Now the choice is between these two: moving to a town I'll hate to work for a man I don't respect or trust to do a job that steadily gets more nonessential daily; or trying to make it as a freelance designer, using a platform of temporary jobs to support this venture.
Ms. Starchild, Mr. Dawson and Mr. and Mrs. Ameling support the latter, yet I don't feel strong enough to follow through.

Yes, after all my talk of following my heart's desire, my surrender comes from externals, from an uber-realistic outlook that creeps from around all my wanderlust tendencies. I cannot divorce the two, and my realism cannot allow me to be cast on the rocks of freedom with the possibility of my greatest fear: starvation.

It's not all gloom and doom though. A local band gave me the opportunity to design its CD artwork. A local coffee shop offered to let me design its menu. I'll be getting paid more to move. So really, this whole post just means one thing: I just really like to whine on and on about nothing. But hey! that's what the whole blogosphere is for. Right!

Do you like whining? Let me know!

Soon, I'll be on Bali time. My new girlfriend and me are taking a trip there, the reason for which is due to her disgust with my lack of travel experience.
Readership, it is hard to feel down about anything with a woman as great as her in my life.

My first nightshift as a professional. It's quite similar to what I remember, and what I expected.
Up until now, I've enjoyed a simple schedule. Now, it's even simpler: Design some pages and wait for lottery numbers (instead of my direct superior). Here's what I've been doing with my time.

Once during a completely stressful day last year, like today but with more personal issues, Ms. Mitchell, photog at The Missourian, without asking or as much as a glance — as if she knew — gave me a quick shoulder rub and said "It'll be OK."
That's a good memory of school.

Wow! (not too loud. —Shhh!) I am T-rashed, trashed. What was a fun coloring voyage for my fireworks party invitations turned into "I'll get us some shots," "Let me sleep in my car," "Is it really 8:30?"
On another note, I'll have to upload some of those invitations. They're fireworks-tastic!

My book came this weekend! It's great, though it makes me heartsick to complete my library, part of which is back at Mr. Ameling's place, 95 percent of which has yet to be purchased.
I've been a professional for months, but still I own no personal computer. Soon, this'll change.

Sentimental Sunday

[TIMESTAMP — 11:30 EDT 2008-07-08]
It was Sunday. Ms. Starchild and me, we decided to, among other things that were planned on our 4-day-5-night weekend, bake cookies, the recipe for which was decided after a few searches through some noted vegan blogs, principle of which was one by a fair CoMo friend of mine. We converted a few of the ingredients to conform to a more lax set of ethical guidelines, namely vegetarianism.
During the mixing process, the explainations for which left a moderate amount of unanswered/unanswerable follow-up questions, torential rainstorms battered Ms. Starchild's opulent golf course-community home. Surprising racks of thunder and the romantic tumble of large, east coast raindrops held us curious and brimming with excitement.
After we'd transfered the completed batter mixture into the best suitible cookie sheets and slid them in the oven, we stepped out on Ms. Starchild's back porch. Since the cookies needed a mere 8-10 minutes to cook, we spent the time watching the falling rain pulverize the trees, golf course grass and stone porch.
The back porch is made of concrete. The wall to the house is set further inside the perimeter of the house itself, allowing for a simple sitting area underneath the solid house's roof. The access door is sturdy; the lock is of considerable quality (the entire house is of considerable quality). The windows are the same.
When it came time to take the cookies out of the oven, I noticed that the sturdy door was locked.
"Yeah right!" said Ms. Starchild when she saw my difficulty with the door. "I made sure it was unlocked. You can't fool me."
Her disbelief in me was not without its warrant. Often, I joke around about things such as this. Most women in the past have found this quite annoying; Ms. Starchild loves me for it. In fact, she loves a lot of things about me than many others've decided to write off completely.
"OK then, after you," I insist.
And as she went through her difficulty with the door, I realized that the only way to save the cookies was to run through the downpour, over the long bed of pine needles, over the bushes and into her garage, inside of which was a spare key for the garage door. As I ran, a feeling of happiness came over me. Being with her makes me happier than I've been in, maybe, ever.
So, that's the end of that story. The cookies turned out a little soggy, but not burnt. This could be due to our either our mixing process or our ingredient change-up. Nevertheless, they're quite delicious.
—No metaphors, codes, or anything else. Just a story.

My publisher led a meeting to disclose the details of the move, which he'd previously disclosed to me. I couldn't focus. Things like "...consolidated newsroom..." and "...consultant's pairing down..." just fell flat. It sounded like a death sentence.
I wish there were another way south, a different way than this.