There are no dirty cars in California.

I'm sittting in the hotel, slightly freaking about Melbourne whilst sipping good Californian wine and hoping to get a bit drunk to ease the worry that has plagued me ever since I set out on my own in life, at 17.
You know you have a problem when even your 16 year old brother is texting you telling you not to be so worried about things, and of course, he is right.
But just as certain is the fact that there is only one person that can stop me worrying, and after all the strange and crazy I have been fed here in San Fran, I think that I am due a little freakout. I have been trying to mask it from Sarah so as not to worry her, though I know she would kiss my cheeks and neck and make me feel better about everything. I just don't want to heap my shit on top of her shit and make anything more difficult for her than it needs to be.
I don't want to be putting a bad spin on what is sure to be a great and grand adventure. I also don't want to cut and run.
Most times I am a stubborn bastard, but I'm always quick to cut and run when the going gets too tough or I know I can be happier elsewhere.
It's a gift and a curse. I mean I sat through 4 years of that goddamn Comp. Sys. course through sheer stubbornness. But the freakouts turned me into a drink lovin' stoner that passed through giggling, smelling strange and attending no lectures. I know I couldn't have had a better time in University than I did, but the thought of cutting and running never crossed my mind.
I just have to strike a balance between knowing I want to be there and being able to function as an apartment renting job-hunting capitalist. It's the latter part I am worried about. This last month away from any and all work has made me lazy, and happy too.
I mean look at me.
I'm writing like I did in college.
Im starting to dream, and dream beyond nice cars and LCD tv's and Xbox 360's and all the stuff that they make you want when your life is already shit.
I have smiled more times in 9 days than I have in the whole of the previous year. It seems childish to think I can continue like this. I just wish that there was some way to escape the sickening rat race I have been caught up in, for jobs I don't want in an industry I hate.
Pot, weed, smoo, the reefer, mary jane, ganj, as always, makes things a lot easier.
I hate being away from Eamonn sometimes. In the past month where I was living at home, he really made everything easier for me. He's smarter than I am, has more direction and verve than I do. He is like me with youth re-injected and with a desire to strike out on his own as soon as he can.
I really love that kid.
Through all the years of big-brotheryness, and largely ignoring him through college, I used to feel guilty that we hadn't bonded more. Now I see that he is doing fine for himself, always has done. And its a privilege to be related to him. I have a feeling that I'm destined to be in his shadow, and I am truly delighted about it. I just want nothing but total success for him.
For me, I just want to avoid working for a little longer, maybe score some more weed, and to relax and have fun, not freakouts, in Melbourne.
Sometimes I feel like the little brother and I want that to change, but I can only be who I am. Success would give me ulcers.
Lets face it.


We spent the day camped out in the hotel. Venturing out for breakfast, dinner and booze left me tired and sore.
I think all the sights we have seen have knocked me for 6, and it's nice to stop and smell the hotelroom coffee once in a while. I really needed the time off. I feel much better about the potential 30 odd hours of travel facing us tomorrow.


I am glad to be leaving California, strange as it may seem. It would be great if it wasn't for the Californians. And their fucking soy milk.
Today, for dinner, I had, and I quote from the menu:
Corn meal beer battered mahi mahi tacos with lime guajillo and a mango and red cabbage slaw.
They were battered fish on tiny tortillas with not enough sauce. We ate in this restaurant because every time we passed by it was always packed, brimful of white well-to-do's waiting at the bar, eyeing the tacos. This is just another encapsulation in daily minutae of the style vs. substance and money vs. happiness debate.
In California, style and money won.