Once upon a time

when I was still in high school, obsessed with the idea of being a free-lovin', commune-livin' hippie, I fell in love. I fell in love with the city of San Francisco. In love with its history, its meaning, its hills, its sights.

A little while later, in college, I visited and I was not disappointed. I've been planning to go back ever since.

So there I was, 2 years out of college and a few days out of grad school, armed with a Virginia Teaching License (that has proved itself pretty much useless) and plans to go back to school to become further certified to teach ESL. After I pretty disheartening advising meeting, I finally went "Fuck it! What am I trying to do here? What do I want?" Not to be an ESL teacher in a Virginia farm county that's for sure. Or to live within spitting distance of my childhood home in Northern Virginia.

I wanted: to move to San Francisco. I wanted: to strike out on my own. I wanted: adventure.

And so, I dropped out of school, and found myself here... back in my childhood home in Northern Virginia. But only temporarily. I've found a summer job, and am saving up for my big move at the end of summer.

After some frantic applying I'm not really sure if I'll actually make it out to San Francisco or not. All I know is that come August, I'm packing up my little car and driving west.