northward ho the wagons go

This is a public service announcement.

If I haven't called you back, written you back, talked to you, met you, buried you, or helped you out of a car after an unfortunate shopping cart accident led to the amputation of both your legs, it's because I've been holed up in my head, wondering if I should apply for a job. A real job.

A reporter position opened up at The Daily Astorian (I interned there this summer, you may recall).

What does this mean?

First, let's appreciate how madly mad it is. Print Journalism, the industry in emotional, financial, and philosophical lock-down, is offering a job.

Second, this shaking-wrist, train-ride, power-for-good Thing wants me to apply for the position.

Third, I did.

The middle of this story: I got the job. I'll be covering courts, city council, and forests. La-teeeeeeee-da.

So, that's what you missed. I'm moving to Astoria at the beginning of the year. My first day is January 4th. In many ways I have no idea what I'm doing. Mostly, I need to find a place to live.

This is incredibly exciting, though, and good timing: my current job ended today, I'm on a month-to-month lease, and I've been dying to write. It's also incredibly frightening and a little sad. I'll be leaving two of the best housemates a person could ever ask for, a wonderful apartment in a neighborhood I love, buckets of lovely lovely friends, communities right and left. You'll all move on without me and I am already bitter about that.

So come hang out with me if we're in the same town this month and then come visit me when we're not.