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I'm ending this journal. When I started, I wanted it to be a documentation of this weird life in the hotel, and a document of my first work experiences in San Francisco. Then, it was easy for me to write about the people here and my reactions to them: all was absurd. I didn't belong here, I was distant. Now it's not so funny to me anymore. I used to be able to see life here as a story in and out of which I could choose to exist. It's not a story I watch anymore, and I feel as though the "choice" element is not accessible anymore. I'm not sure if I'll have a job when I leave here soon, but that concern is peripheral. I just can't stay here anymore. Thank you to all of you who checked into The Club. I'm checking the fuck out. FIN. sometimes |
