I made it to Seattle in one piece, despite flying out September 11th. I'm crashing on a friend's floor for a little while until I get my shit together. I've put in over 80 applications and I've got a part-time job now. I'm waiting to hear back on a few other interviews.
In the meantime I've been busy falling in love--with Chinatown, with my culture, with the sights and sounds and the lights and the buzz. Maybe my inability to settle down and all my moving and traveling was supposed to bring me here.
Or maybe I just got lucky. I feel pretty lucky; in fact I haven't been sad since I left Norfolk. What's done is too fucked up to fix and therefore not worth crying over, right?
I'm glad to be doing good for once.
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