When I came down to Florida seven years ago this January, even though I didn’t want the job or apartment I would end up taking, I knew in my heart I was done with D.C.
Sure I wanted to go back to visit. Which I haven’t done but once and it was a whirlwind. But I knew it was time to go.
I returned to southeast Florida last night, and felt the ache of my soul being in southwest Florida.
It’s time to go.
I may or may not have been fishing today, wondering what a move would mean for my livelihood. But I didn’t ask and I won’t make any assumptions.
The job prospects are about as sad as the paltry number of apartments available for longer than a vacation rental on the Gulf Coast.
But remaining here in this shitpile of an apartment beyond the four months left on my lease … and noisy mofos upstairs, whether the same or different ones … means I should probably be on suicide watch.
I don’t even want to leave forever. Just a year. Maybe two. Anything to kill this ache inside that living here doesn’t feel right and may never work out. I mean, how many shitty overpriced apartments can one person take, and would the next one simply be the next stop on the fuckup train?