I'm a 22-year-old INFP cinéaste residing in the coastal city of San Diego, CA. I have an affection for the ethereal, the chaotic, restless spirits, and the fine arts.
Bear with me, because I'm not entirely sure of what I'm doing.
Let’s move to Brooklyn. I’ll work at the trendy Japanese restaraunt downstairs from our apartment. I will bring you home take-out every night, and we’ll drink Rolling Rock. We’ll stay up until 3 AM, and talk about how we dream of spending the money in the mason jar sitting on top of the fridge in our tiny kitchen, on two one-way tickets to Tokyo, where we will waste Sunday afternoons under the cherry blossom trees. We can read old yellowing issues of the New York Times, smoke Lucky Strikes, and complain about how much society has changed, while we lay between our goose feathered comforter and drink bottomless cups of coffee. Black, bold, and enough sugar until the spoon stands on its own. You’ll find part-time work at a small, independent graphic design company. It wont pay much, but it’s enough for us to get by. We’ll take the subway on Friday nights, just so we can watch strangers and make up stories about them. Which neighborhood we think they reside in, what they do for a living, where they buy their groceries from. We’ll get bored, we’ll go home.
Let’s move to Nashville. And it’s going to be hot. The kind of hot where we are forced to wear very little, and we wont mind it one bit. We’ll live in a small house next to a very small lake, and we will go fishing on July nights while mosquitoes eat us alive. Although, it doesn’t bother us, because in Brooklyn there was no wildlife at all. Here, we can see the stars at night. Real stars. Not like the fake, glowing plastic ones on your ceiling in your childhood bedroom, but REAL STARS! We’ll drive a brown 1966 Coupe DeVille. It has a few minor setbacks, but the mechanic next door, who’s name is Bo, lends you hand in fixing her up. We’ll pay him back in beer and invite him to eat dinner with us. BBQ ribs, YUM. I’ll find work waitressing at a small greasy spoon diner in town. The jukebox will play Johnny Cash all day, and my manager will have a handlebar mustache. Everyone will think he looks ridiculous. We’ll be drowning in a sea of banjos and bbq, babe. We’ll love it.
Let’s move to Philadelphia. In the fall. My God, will it be beautiful. The trees outside of our bungalow will be covered in fiery reds and yellows. We’ll have a golden retreiver named Mojave, and we will spend October in the backyard by the fire. We’ll open up a small bakery, and we’ll be on the front page in the Sunday newspaper. “PHILADELPHIA’S SWEET NEW COUPLE.” People around the city will know us by name, and we’ll be hounded by phone calls from hungry customers who cannot live without their cake batter. We’ll take train rides on the weekend, and go sight-seeing. We can stay at bed and breakfasts, stroll through the farmers market, and drink cheap wine by the East Park Reservoir. It’s nice here. We could settle here. But we move on.
We have to go home, eventually. We will have bills to pay, funerals to attend, fish to feed, and 9-5 jobs that we loathe to get back to. We’ll have phone calls to answer, and our inspection sticker will have expired. No matter how fun it is to run, no matter how far we go, home will keep us clenched in its claws, and we’ll be tied to this place until the day we die. Don’t worry, though. We’ll do it again, soon.