I just received some spam that begins with that age-old question: “What does the mother of your children think of you viewing pornography?”
Honey, I’m sorry. I — I have kids?
Day: March 16, 2004
If it wasn’t official before this, it is now: I fucking hate the snow. This evening, coming home from work, I was involved in a car accident, rear-ended by a gentleman whose breaks didn’t work in time to prevent him from hitting me. I’m fine, he’s fine — and, while his car wouldn’t start, mine seems pretty much okay and is definitely driveable. I’m not under the impression that car accidents don’t happen elsewhere — there’s snow in New York, for instance, and you apparently take your life in your hands every time you wander on to a Texas road — but I really want to live someplace where winter is over by the middle of March. Those places exist, right?
Texas scares me because it’s far away, it’s an unknown with equal possibility for success and disappointment, and getting a job there that’s worth a move across country seems incredibly unlikely at this point. There are a lot of reasons, a lot of factors. But it also scares me because it’s hot. Extremely hot. Like walking on the sun hot. It’s beautiful in early April and late September (the two times I’ve been there), but I’m not convinced swapping longish winters for extreme summers is exactly what I want to do.
But, man, I fucking hate the snow. More to the point, I hate snow that falls after two weeks of spring, that falls and won’t stop falling just out of spite. I hate not knowing if winter’s really gone until sometime in early May. I don’t hate a lot about Pennsylvania — and I seem to hate less than some of my readers and family think I ought to — but winter is pretty high on my list. I can think of few circumstances under which I’d willingly relocate somewhere colder.
That doesn’t, of course, make the decision to stay or go any easier for me. Texas is scary and uncertain. New York is familiar but boring. Pennsylvania is cold and stifling. It’s the same song I’ve been singing for — how many years is it now? Believe me, I’m sick of it, too. I’ve spent the whole year sick of it, applying for jobs, not getting jobs, weighing possibilities, reaching no conclusion. I want to reach a decision.
I don’t, however, necessarily want to do it within ten days from now. But that’s when my lease renewal is apparently due. Ten days to decide if I leave Pennsylvania — and, if I leave, I must know where I’m going.
I wish everything was as easy as hating the fucking snow.