So I'm moving to California. No, I don't have a job there. No, I don't have a good reason to go. But I don't have a good reason not to go either. As a migrant, I have a very romanticized view of throwing my shit in a car and going someplace 'cause I feel like it, bitch. Like I said, very romantic. I also have a bucket list, and picking up and moving to California is on it.
The story goes like this:
One picturesque New England spring day, one of my besties Arielle and I decide to meet up for some much needed back massages, as Mount Holyoke has decided it would be fun to rape us with the clock tower in lieu of finals, and we are feeling a little less than comfortable. We emerge from our respective study spots, which in reality were probably cozy little spaces tucked within the bowels of the Hogwartian library, but my memory is recalling a dark windowless room with a solitary metal chair -- there is water dripping from the ceiling onto my head and pooling at my feet, which now resemble dried apricots. My laptop is in my lap (appropriately), but it seems to have a water force field around it, because it remains dry and intact as I slave away writing Facebook status updates about how I'm slaving away.
So Arielle and I see the sun for the first time in days, and because I apparently think of the library as a sweatshop, I tell Arielle, "I've got to get the fuck out. Let's just get in the car and go to California or something," while I massage her back with unnecessary aggression, muttering about crunchies and otherwise being creepy.
"I've always been told I'd love LA," she coos. She admits that the thought has crossed her mind more than a few times. Over the course of the next hour, we switch roles, and continue to plot our move to LA at the end of August. Arielle's small hands move with surprising strength underneath my shoulder blades, and with firm, fluid motions, she is able to persuade my knots into submission. I drool all over her pillow. (What -- you expected a sexy lesbian love scene? Who do you think I am, Carlo? ... oh wait.)
A week later we admit via text that we were joking, but we can't stop thinking about the idea. Of moving.
Next thing I know, Arielle is going to LA and I'm still in Northampton unable to find a job that doesn't involve asking people whether they want fries or cole slaw with their burger. Poor Kellita has to listen to me ask her a thousand questions and tell her the same things over and over about my plans to go to California. She watches them take shape.
However, the plan changed yesterday, because I've been offered a place to stay in San Francisco for a bit, I'm going to temporarily live there while I check out jobs/apts/etc. in both locations and decide whether I want to live in SF or LA.
I can say with 60% certainty that my glorified view of this move to California has nothing to do with the epic massage Arielle gave me while we were talking about it. Okay, I'm lying. More like 49%. I am 30% sure I will not let her epic massages be a deciding factor in my choice of city. I mean, if Grace is willing to let me borrow her girlfriend every now and again, of course.
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