So as you can guess I didn’t tell the event planners to f*ck off, because I am incapable of saying no, to anyone, ever, and so instead of saying, look, I’m only looking for a job for three months, I basically just want to make some money before I get the f*ck out of here, I said, yeah, I mean, I guess, if I like the work I’ll stay. And they said, ok, be here in an hour.

And I should be feeling elated. I landed a real job at a real magazine, which is the job I never hoped to be lucky enough to find, and they have an Office Dog, the publisher yelled at me for dressing too formally, and they kicked me out early and told me not to come in til 10 tomorrow. And it’s at a magazine! That’s my dream job! It’s exactly what I’ve been wanting for the longest, longest time and I should be gloating like crazy—but instead…I feel…riddled with doubt.

How can I be riddled with doubt, you say? Didn’t I get all than I asked for and more? Aren’t I the luckiest damn editor-with-skilz on the planet for finding a cool f*ckin job in Arizona, of all places, and shouldn’t I shut the hell up before higher powers smite me?

Yeah, well. Then what would I have to be cynical about.

What if I hate Arizona? What if the job isn’t as cool as I think it is? What if I should have been working a temp job and freelance writing, which is what I really, really in my heart of hearts want to be doing but am too timid to actually attempt? What if I should have taken the copyeditor job at the Arizona Business Gazette, which had the gall to leave a message about it for me to listen to as I was driving home feeling insecure about the job I had just taken…? What if I have to stay here forever? Or, which is more likely, what if the BF convinces me to leave and they subsequently hate me? What if I could have found a better job in California if I had just waited? What if I should have taken My Ideal Job in Genève? What if this SUCKS???

Oh well. At least I have a salary. I guess all that other sh*t shouldn’t matter. Ah, money, soothing salve on my aching wounds of doubt and insecurity. You are too good.

But that isn’t the real problem. The real problem is I’m tired as f*ck of fitting my life into my boyfriend’s. You can’t launch a career around someone who moves every three months (and forget about any materialistic aspirations!)—you just can’t!

It’s raining in Arizona. I know, it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Baltimore. But as I was driving home the sunset was fucking beautiful. It looked like the mountains were on fire, with the layer of clouds just above the mountain catching the blazing yellow of the sun.

Arizona is gorgeous. I have a potentially awesome job. And my pool has a diving board. Why do I feel so fucking depressed?