Year’s End, Part 1

When I’m thinking about something, it’s hard to think about other things. So, for example, I haven’t been able to think of other things–blog things–over the past month. Because I was thinking of something. Or, somethings, to be more specific.

A month ago, my roommate tells me she’ll be leaving at the end of December. So I’m left with a choice: I can either scramble to find another roommate (who I assumed won’t like me), so I can stay at this place I can’t really afford, so I can continue to work at a job I don’t really enjoy, so I can remain in a city where I have approximately zero friends, scraping by a windowless and meager existence, or I can… not do that.

I decide to not do that.

My friends in LA–probably tired of just hearing me complain about my life (and presumably wanting to watch me complain about it in person)–have been trying to get me to move down there for a while. So I decide I will. No job, no home. I’ll stay with them and my last paycheck and returned security deposit can sustain me for a month or two, until I hopefully find a job. At least this way I’ll be with some friends. And at this point I decide I should let them know about this. So I tell my friends in LA and they say it’s great: I can stay with them as long as I need, etc.

The next day I ask our HR guy about what will happen with my paid time off, and that sort of thing, if I quit at the end of the month. Of course he wants to know why, so I tell him I don’t feel like I was on the right track, to editing or writing or whatever–I don’t go into my other problems. He asks if there was anywhere in the company that I think would be a good fit, just so I could be sure to explore my options. So I mention the website part of the business, which they’ve been talking about having me involved in for months, but nothing came of it. So the HR guy says, why don’t I meet with them to talk about it? So I say OK, and he sets up a meeting for the following Monday.

I ask my landlord if I can have until that Monday (the 3rd) to give my 30 days notice and he says OK. (Actually, he says no, but then he says he misunderstood my email, so OK.) Over the weekend I think about the possibilities and, coincidentally, make a new friend.

I decide, in order for me to stay, they’d have to offer me a super great job and enough money to get my own place here. And I don’t think that’s going to happen. Although, you have to keep in mind that up till now I’ve been making what, in SF, practically amounts to minimum wage for anywhere else. So it’s not like I’m looking for a ridiculous increase.

I’m stressed out, and I can feel myself starting to get sick. I give my 30 days notice, because even if I do stay in SF, I’ll be moving.

On Monday I have the meeting and they basically offer me the job, no questions asked. A content editor position, some writing, gathering articles, giving a voice to the site. They say it’s OK if I start off slowly, since I haven’t had a lot of experience with this type of thing directly. It’s basically the perfect opportunity. I say I’ll think about it.

Now I’m really confused. I think about it as I walk the few blocks back to my office. This would be a great opportunity to learn and develop some great skills. This is opposed to moving to LA and likely finding some crappier job for less pay, at least for a while. I guess I’d like to stay here, if they pay me enough.

But… I didn’t ask about the money.

I don’t know why I didn’t. It all happened so fast, and I’ve never been in a position like this before; I didn’t know what to do. When I get back, I send off an email thanking them, and–oh, by the way–Conlan gots ta git paid, son. I don’t hear back immediately.

The next day I’m sick. This happens all the time. I get stressed out and my immune system shuts off. I call in sick, sleep till 6pm, and am still sick the next day. I send another email to the hiring people saying, basically, I’ll decide when I know the salary.

I’m still sick the next day. I think I’m getting better, but I still generally feel like shit. Just a general achy, feverish, snot-faced good time. This is also bad because I’ll need all the money I can get in my last paycheck, whatever happens.

I still haven’t heard anything by the end of the week, when I finally go to the doctor and get some drugs for my sinus infection. Next week?

The clock–apparently unaware of the cliché–goes on ticking.