Wanderlust

I am absolutely ready to move to New York, I can feel the city thrumming in my veins, the energy flowing through me as I move through the masses of people rushing around to get where they are going.

It’s going to make me miss London like nothing else ever has. I fell in love with that city. From Buckingham to the Eye to Parliament to the Underground, my entire being often screams to go back to London.

But I know it won’t stop with London. My list of countries to visit is ever growing. I love he cultures, the people, the food, the languages. I want to go back to France, to revisit Ireland. I want to stand on the coast of Scotland, kiss the Blarney stone in Ireland, eat pasta in Italy, swim in Spain (where the rain falls mainly on the plain.) I want to breathe in the air of Germany, come home with a tan from Egypt. There are even places here in the United States I year to lay my eyes on. The Grand Canyon, Niagra Falls, the Golden Gate bridge. I refuse to die without writing ‘Viva Las Vegas’ on my car window as I make a trip to the city of sin itself.

And the above list barely begins to cover it. Sweden, Romania, Poland, Australia, New Zealand, Belgium, and back to Canada. 

I cannot begin to fathom how a person settles in a place and doesn’t leave. At least not for short trips. I’ve been taking out-of-country trips ever couple of years since I was in the ninth grade (and am currently a super, super senior in college). I get that itch that drives me up the wall and I begin to feel claustrophobic, begging to travel.

If I had the money and time I would just travel everywhere in the US I wanted via car (because hello Route 66).

Wanderlust, it’s got me wrapped around it’s finger, promising airy skies and open roads ahead.

A Day in the Life…

I realised I failed in doing the Daily Prompt for the 6th of August. Between work and trying to get funding for school and packing to move, I’m surprised I remember my own name.

I work six days this week, that’s twice as many as last week and I’m starting to regret it. It’s not the job, or the people I work with really, it’s the customers. I know, I know, never talk bad about the customers. But when you stand there and have a grown woman throw a temper tantrum in front of your very eyes over something so trivial you wouldn’t even think twice if it had been reversed, you wonder how you’re supposed to make it through the day.

I am thankful though, for the job. It helps pay the bills, and trust me, with the Film Academy looming over my head, the bills are stacking up.

So here goes for another day at work, six hours out of the twenty four in a day being eaten up by me standing there wishing I could be at home writing or reading or doing anything really than slicing meat and serving fried chicken.