Notes from the Underground. My name is Bella and I live in a basement. I've been feeling a bit off as of late, trying to get adjusted to my new environment. As you may know, as I may have told you, I've recently re-located from the sunny climes of California to the rain adorned surroundings of the Pacific Northwest. I did it for a dude. A dude I like. A lot. That said, I'm thinking I did it for more than just that reason. I was struggling in my previous situation, I wasn't thriving. I'm now seeking to make a life for myself in which I flourish. I'm not sure that I'm flourishing at the moment; I only know that I've bought the existential equivalent of a lottery ticket. Hoping to hit the jackpot.
I'm trying to keep my eye on the ball, so to speak. And chin up, etc, etc as I reel off resume after resume and hope for a tug on the line, wanting to find the right sort of work, with the right sort of pay. The right sort being something that could actually pay the rent. So far no takers. I did have an opportunity to be a ghost writer, which seems a proper trade for a girl who lives in a basement. To write anon, voice heard but sight unseen, invisible behind a curtain of fonts. Alas, I got cold feet at the last minute. I wasn't sure I could make enough money doing it, for the amount of time involved. And perhaps it was just something in my gut that just said: no can do.
I suppose I want to be seen. As I explore neighborhoods that are foreign to me, in a town that is not my hometown, I yearn to be known, to be nodded at, smiled to, recognized. It's going to take time, I know. I must be patient. I must lie in wait. Come the first sight of sun, I plan to pop my head out and take in the world. Take on the world. Two times two make five. In the meantime, I'll lay low, grateful for the kindness of friends, of family support, and plan to emerge from this adventure with a job, and home, and a spot of happiness.
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