It’s time for saying goodbye

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?

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