I don’t feel tired when I work 11 hours a day, but I feel exhausted on my only day off. I am so fucking tired that I can barely close my eyes to shut them off from the blinding sun, because putting my sunglasses on would take too much extra efort. I can’t believe my eyes, I can’t believe my muscles, I can’t believe my bones, I can’t believe my body.
It’s Independence Day, but nothing on the city streets, nor even on the boardwalk, indicates anything like that. I’m looking for a second job and I’ve had enough of No, we are too much girls already (and apparently, too much English-illiterate ones, too) and of Come back in a week or two. I just want to work. Not ten or eleven hours a day, but fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. I want to work and raise enough money to go to California and Arizona and indulge on overpriced curly fries and Cherry Cola, while taking in the jaw-dropping views of the Grand Canyon and Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t want to say goodbye to my Santa Monica dream. Ever. I want to meet the Pacific, which will most likely terrify me just as much (or maybe even more) as the dead-cold and ever-spreading Atlantic. I want to live out Lana Del Rey’s Lust for Life on top of the H from the Hollywood sign. I want to see the sun set into the ocean instead of rising from it. I want to actually be there. And never leave again, in spite of crossing back the Atlantic to the old and much more food and transportation-friendly Europe of ours.
But not today. Today I slept till 11 AM and procrastinated till 2:30 PM. Then I hopped on my bike and resumed the quest for turning into a rat in a cage, pulling minimum wage.
There’s no overtime, nor overpay; only overhope.
Yesterday, my hands touched loads of Washingtons and Hamiltons and Jacksons and Grants and Lincolns, $8,532 total worth, while Sia ironically sang Baby, I don’t need no dollar bills to have fun tonight. Oh, yes you do, honey. No ride is for free. Money is the anthem of success and exhaustion is the price you have to pay to get’em. I hadn’t even noticed that there are unshaved patches of skin on my legs or that I have three new bruises because sometimes, my bike has a brain of its own. My buttocks hurt and I simply had to call off the search and stop in front of a convenience store to buy some cold caffeinated beverage that would supposedly put me back on track again. I’m writing this from a parking lot on the 12th street, where my energy didn’t want to cooperate with me anymore. Let’s overhope that everything will eventually fall into place.
P.S. Aaaand it started raining. Great! Rain is the only relief you can get from this smothering subtropical stupid weather.