  I don't like clichés much. Sometimes I use them, out of habit or when it is the only thing I can think to mutter. Like "wherever you go, there you are. " I hate that one. "You can never go home again. " I always hated that one, too. Until Monday. Now I fully understand it's meaning. As I am home, my dear three readers. And it's strange here. Not strange like the weird kid in your science class or the mold growing in an old tupperware container. It's like I'm looking at life through binoculars. Since I have come home, I've been out of the neighborhood twice.
Talked to three people, in person who weren't my parents. And drove my car once. And that was just to get a breakfast biscuit. I have no need or desire to do anything but fill out resumes and fax them to Atlanta businesses. Every time my parents try to push me to finding a temporary job here, I have to push back twice as hard with a no or the patented "I'll do it later. " That last one's particularly hard. Because, being my parents, they know there never will be a later. I spend most of my time watching satellite tv - mostly HBO, The-N and As the World Turns (which is being to lose its excitement). And when I'm not doing that or fixing dinner, I am up in my room mindlessly surfing the internet for nothing.
Actually, today I start watching www.apple.com and the iTunes download numbers so I can try to get one of those 50 free iPods they're giving away. Of course, I can't blame all of it on Tifton's lack of things to do. Because even if there were things to do (which there aren't), I probably wouldn't go do them. I fact, I am entirely comfortable with the day-to-day boredom I have sitting in the house. I lack the drive to write new things and edit old pieces - something I usually l love to do. It took me almost a whole week to write a new post. And the only excuse I have is that I have full-on little town blues. My house is no longer the home I once knew. And my "visit" here is more like a prison sentence than a vacation.
During high school I would never have foreseen this version of my future. I am most definitely not typing some piece of hard-hitting journalism or signing copies of my children's book. Now I would be content just to sell a children's book. Of course in Atlanta, as there are no book stores in Tifton and the nearest one is an hour away. I can only pray that someone will hire me. Look at my resume, call my references for fucksake. How I wish I would have gotten that job. 
