Posted on October 4, 2018
There is no bigger cliché than small town girl leaves for the big city, hopes to become a famous something-artsy or at least marry rich. About a year and a half ago, I, myself being a walking talking Rom-Com Cliché– without the men and the happy endings, obviously – thought it was about time to leave for a city of rom-com appropriate size. New York is always the dream destination, but because even walking clichés sometimes need to spice things up – but not really – I ended up in Sydney. It would be the best of both worlds – somehow, along the way, I apparently aspired to become Hannah Montana. If you kept up with this Shit, even just a little, you know it were an amazing five hundred-odd days (apart from the days spent crying in bed – which I assure you, were less than 50%) but that there was going to be a time where I’d have to reverse-rom-com my life. Big city girl leaves for small town, happy to be reunited with friends and family, but still unmarried and un-famous doesn’t know what the fuck to do next.
There’s lots of things no one ever tells you – like how gravity is a post-sex bitch or how the terms change from ‘active social life’ to ‘alcoholism’ once you graduate – and one of them is that coming home really sucks. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to see everyone again, and I’ve really, genuinely missed my friends and family, but fuck me, running away from real life is waaaymore fun than actual real life. It’s a strange concept to start with anyway, this whole ‘real life’ thing; it’s not that my life abroad was invalid in any kind of way, but it was just so much fun, it seemed like it was too fun to be a life I could have permanently, ya feel? Now, I hope ya don’t feel, because there is no such thing as a life so fun it becomes fake. As long as you make money, pay your bills, try and save a bit, and not do completely unholy amounts of coke in the bathroom, you should be alright, right? Quit your job every six months, rent an RV, live off cheap pasta, get another job, start trafficking drugs and illegal animals; live your best life, you only get one – I think, it’s an unconfirmed theory at the moment, to be honest. Or you know, don’t listen to me and do what I did anyway: live a great life, get a grip and come home because that’s what adults do, and try to figure out what the fuck to do next.
So far, attempts at getting said grip have failed miserably. There is a certain expectation once you come home; it includes you finally having figured out what you want to do with your life, and then obviously instantly finding a job that goes with that newfound perspective. There is the inevitable question of ‘Have you finally found yourself a man?’, and the inevitable ‘Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of fish still in the (North) Sea, doll.’ You know what’s also in the North Sea, doll? Trash. Loads and loads of trash. Obviously, I haven’t found the job of my dreams yet – let alone that man – but I did recently go back to college to sharpen my skill set, or something (i.e. get another very expensive piece of paper I can use to wipe the counter at the truck stop that is my inescapable destiny). Despite all this, a tacky tattoo once told me tonever give up. Eat, pray, love, a tiny pillow once advised me. Don’t eat chili out of a can, horrible stomach aches once taught me. There’s lessons to be learnt, places to see, and things to do wherever you’re willing to invest time in it, I guess. I don’t even know what the moral of this story is supposed to be: piss off to another country, or stay home and do your own thing. You do you, I’d say – and don’t eat chili out of a can, for obvious reasons.
In the meantime, anyone who is willing to offer me a job or a book deal can reach me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Any guys willing to be my +1 to family events so relatives can stop asking me if I’m gay, please send applications to email@example.com or firstname.lastname@example.org.