The poured concrete that composed the steps behind her backdoor was hot and grainy under her bare feet. To claim that the backdoor was "hers" is indeed a stretch. She recently returned to the west coast in an attempt to get reacquainted with sunsets and palm trees. She was living on her friends couch and well, I suppose to say she was "living" is a bit of a stretch also. The four by eight plot behind the apartment was the only spot she felt at ease. The inside was messy and chaotic. Boxes were piled to the ceiling even though the couple had lived there for 2 years. The decor was most certainly not her style, mainly because there was none, although, she did find the random tire outside of the bathroom door to be a nice touch. The kicker was the kitchen. Regardless of how many times she scoured it from ceiling to floor, at night the "other" tenants would still scurry out with all six of their creepy little legs from every drawer, crack and crevice. So, it was no wonder why she would sit out back for hours on end with her bottle of tequila and wonder what exactly happened to land her here at twenty-five years of age. Her address may have been in "America's Finest City" but it certainly didn't look like it from where she was sitting.
All aspects of her life were looking bleak. Unemployed, uninsured, unmarried, unstimulated, unsatisfied. Of course, if her phone rang from one of her friends back east she would never admit that. As far as they knew, she had several job leads, a thriving social life and a quaint but nice place to sleep. Her dishonesty would leave her feeling unsettled. She began to take personal inventory of her attitude and its relatedness to her situation. In the forefront of her mind all she initially saw was all her short comings and all the people whom she failed to prove wrong in their disbelief of her ability to thrive anywhere. She was overlooking every accomplishment she had achieved over the four years since she left home. She was overlooking every characteristic that she possessed that previously empowered her to acquire the recognition she rightfully earned.
Swig. "Limes and salt are for pussies and amateurs".
So, what had changed? What was the difference? How come previously she was able to make her own destiny, whereas now it seemed that she was predetermined for failure? Risk and adventure used to ignite her. They were worthy and adversary opponents. The opportunities used to seem infinite. Now, they were limited. Sure, the job market had adjusted slightly over the years but she wasn't opposed to starting from scratch and now she was more qualified and experienced. Hell, she even had a resume and a good one at that.
Swig. "Not bad for fourteen bucks a bottle"
That evening she had received a phone call from an old friend, probably the only friend who she knew could relate to her sentiments of failure and despair. He was a friend she couldn't lie to about her situation, nor did she feel the need to.
"And...and... I hate it here. I hate everything about it. I hate the people, I hate the weather, I hate the- UGH! It's just all so... so very 'ugh'!"
Swig.
This phone call, this audible conversation, this friend was exactly what she needed. She needed someone who was going to call her on her bullshit. She needed someone who was going to point out her blatant hostility. Hatred and negativity are contagions of the most vile and nastiest sort. It wasn't she who had changed, he pointed out. It was her outlook. It was her attitude. It was the pessimism of herself and others that she let into her mind to fester. She needed to open her mind and clear her head of all the prefixes of "un-" and "ir-" and "non-", he advised. She needed to open her heart to love and appreciation, starting with herself but eventually love of the experience that is life. After all, "We only get one ride" he reminded her.
Click. Call ended. Swig. "Damn, I miss him".
Everyday for the next three weeks she awoke from the couch to a text message from her friend. They were always something positive, whether it be a brief summary of his current thriving band project, a small comedic anecdote from his daily life, a quote from whichever book he was reading at the time, or simply a message stating, "Hope you have a great day. Remember, it's all just a ride".
Over the course of those three weeks she began getting up and showered earlier. She resumed running and other such activities that spiked her blood pressure and made her feel alive. She altered her vocabulary and began ignoring calls from people who solely wanted to complain and wallow. She regained her confidence and possibilities again seemed abundant.
By the end of that three week period she had landed a respectable job back east and had appointments to tour apartments in the coming week. She was packing up her belongings and lining up her suitcases. Well, to say she was "packing" is a bit of a stretch, it could more accurately be described as cramming and consolidating. How she acquired more of anything that Summer was beyond her, but the one thing she didn't mind leaving behind, the one thing she most certainly wouldn't miss would be negativity.
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