Home Sickeningly Sweet Home

A mere week ago, I was having a perfectly nice time in Zagreb, stopping over to visit friends at the conclusion of a week-long press tour of the Dalmatian Coast in Croatia. I was constantly referred to as an American Journalist, which made me sound semi-cool and as if I had unlimited job prospects.

A week later, here I sit on my computer, in my apartment, sometimes gazing at my scruffy orange commie cat, Oskar. My time is now spent going through general bouts of wanting to slam my head against the wall, perusing photos of both my time in Croatia and the previous week in Oregon wine country, sobbing internally with each phone call or email query I make regarding any open copywriting positions, and slapping myself for feeling like an ungrateful asshat after I've just spent two weeks seeing some of the most beautiful places and things a person could imagine.

The life of a copywriter / travel journalist should be a bit more glamorous, right? To go from getting a nightly knock on my hotel room door asking if I want chocolate to wondering if any educated 30-year-old woman should be contemplating ramen for dinner and if anyone will ever hire me is sick & twisted. Especially in the span of days. While I was prepared for this to happen, it was easy to put it out of my mind while I was getting fed copious amounts of homemade chardonnay in a tiny bar in Korcula while singing along to Guantanamera with the bar owner and two bike tour guides. It was easy to put these frightening thoughts aside when I was driving an ATV through the hills in Trogir, surrounded on each side by the Adriatic. It was easy to forget I had no real job to return to while I was walking the wall in Dubrovnik.

But all good things have to come to an end. And reality is always right there where we left it.

It's a cruel world. Wait. Allow me to amend. It's a beautiful cruel world.