I have so much to report, and so little desire to re-live it all to be honest. The string of events that have led me to where I am now (without proper residence, on the verge of an expiring visa, pain in my leg that doesn't seem to want to end and daring to make the boldest career move I've ever attempted) has royally tried to screw with my solidarity. There's nothing like being stripped of every single thing you use to identify yourself to make you lose your mind and test the strength of your mettle. Yes, I could most certainly waste time pondering what it all means, if the universe is trying to tell me something, if it's just a string of bad luck, but I'd rather just pick up the latest broken piece, find some gnarly glue, slap it back together and keep on truckin'.
It's interesting when you go through a difficult time how various people react. I have found it's one of three reactions: 1. Shock and surprise followed by consoling and coddling. 2. Feigned understanding with much dialogue behind one's back. 3. Realists who tell it like it is with no sugar coating to be had. The older I get, the less bullshit I am able to stand from people (still having enough of my own to wade through) so I do have a new found appreciation for group number 3. All BS aside, I don't love Paris. I'm not even sure I like big cities anymore. I miss temperate weather, the sunshine, the ocean and basically loathe any environment that thrives on unnecessary stress. I don't know what that means for my future, but for now my best option is to stay put until I figure it out.
Despite it all, my disposition remains forward thinking and rather upbeat. Perhaps I've simply met the quota of tears for this lifetime. I mean, my family did seem to always think I was a bit of a drama queen. I tend to think they were just jealous at my ability to get so emotionally worked up it allowed me to vomit my way out of any situation. Although the disgorging was sometimes used for manipulation, it was mostly a surprise as my deepest fears came alive in my stomach and felt the need to exit through my mouth. There are two children who will never forget their first day of first grade in Mrs. Fleisher's class in 1984. Being very nervous about going to school all day long and having a large, scary, beast of a woman with two distinctively downward pointing eyebrows for a teacher, it's no wonder I lost my Pop Tarts all over poor little Dominic Onaindia. I don't remember the embarrassment, or if children laughed at me, or if Dominic cried in his puke covered state, I simply remember the sweet relief that followed (until the nurse's office couldn't get a hold of my parents, so the neighbor kid's mother had to bring me some of her daughter's clothes to finish out the day). Those old pangs of nervousness in the stomach have subsided for the most part, but if one does pop up now and again, I simply remember that I'm an adult now and being ruled by fear is not an option.