One of the less encouraging things that happened to me this year was when I got fired from my first writing internship. It had been an unpaid internship, and I’m not sure if that fact made my dismissal more painful or less. The position was at a quirky little agency in Portland where I was tasked with sourcing content for a new literary database, the eventual use for which I am still unclear. Naturally I was about as gung ho as any intern could be; I was stoked about shadowing an author of such apparent caliber, and every time I heard my then-boss drop a big name in the business I became more convinced that he was not a human, but a literary deity. Unfortunately, as I have found to be true before, my first impression was misguided. I held the position for about three weeks, for which I had uprooted my entire life, until suddenly one morning I was called into my superior’s office (a sick treehouse-like writing oasis) and sent on my way with an obviously repurposed Starbucks gift card.

 

This, of course, was shortly after I had begun working as a barista. In all fairness I had already come to terms with the fact that my position was not very rewarding for me anyway, and I guess my boss agreed that it was unfair to keep me on any longer. That I respected, but he also told me that if I had only had about ten years’ experience under my belt I would have been much more useful to the agency. I’m sure I don’t need to detail the irony of that statement. Alas, since I was in the fragile position of being a lone sojourner in a new city I had no choice but to look at the positive. I was happy that this internship had at least brought me to Portland, where for the first time I felt like I was more or less home.

 

I lived in the attic of a house that I shared with several other dudes in Alberta Arts district. I loved the area and rent was cheap, so I went for it without giving it too much thought. I spent my first Christmas away from home exchanging white elephant gifts with my roommates, and everything was just dandy until the perpetual rains of the Northwest produced a multitude of insect refugees that decided to hunker down in my attic. At first it was just an ant here or there, but little did I know my abode was soon to become a winter wonderland for microscopic squatters that would leave the scent of citronella ant guts lingering in my nose for months to come.

 

By March I had ants sharing my bed with me. From the windows to the wall, they could be found in every nook and cranny of my room. Ants manifested two of my space heaters to the point that they no longer worked. The worst part of it all was that my very lifestyle enabled their presence, and though I wasn’t opposed to using traps and poison to get rid of them, I was simply up against too many. Seasonal affective disorder had never felt like such a tangible illness and soon enough the madness had me tearing off the plastic around my draftiest window, the one with tiny cracks all around the edges, just to let a little light in. I think this was a turning point for the ants; were they really living in my room or in my head? I still can’t say for sure.

 

Luckily cannabis is legal in Oregon, and it can’t be surprising that a river rat like myself has been known to indulge in the substance from time to time. But was it coincidence that these six-legged fiends somehow seemed to show up every time I opened my window to cheef a quick bowl? I think not. I became convinced that those little fuckers were drawn to the aroma of a good dank herb just as much as anybody. They knew that a rainy day off for me meant a time of rich abundance for their colony, and so they eagerly awaited the mass of crumbs that fell from my bed like a feast every time they got a whiff of that botanical kryptonite. It was a vicious cycle; my frequent binges were their greatest and most reliable source of food.

 

A saga that is so comical in hindsight was at the time a small devastation to the fantasy I had envisioned for myself in the City of Roses. I had landed in Oregon during one of the coldest and rainiest winters in years, failed at a job that I considered to be a shoe-in to the NW writing scene and was subsequently displaced from my home by an army of tiny vermin. Always a sucker for drama, I can’t say I don’t at least appreciate the poetic value of my misfortune, but it’s taken me a while to get to this point. Ten months ago I made my last blog post, and since that time I have been struggling to find my way through this enduring creative dry spell. Last month my neglected website descended into domain purgatory and I nearly lost all of its content. I am beyond happy to have it back in working order, and though my stories may be less compelling than I had hoped, I feel lucky that I still have the opportunity to release them into the wild. The fact that my closest friends and family take the time to keep up with me on my journey makes me feel as validated as any readership could, and I’m just so thankful for you.

 

As I sit in my cozy gypsy caravan in the snow flecked foothills of Mt. Rainier, I feel more at peace than I have all year. I don’t know how I managed to score a life partner like the one who built this home with me, but every day that I wake up next to her I know I am doing A-okay. I am currently without a permanent residence, unemployed and unable to start school until next year. I am absolutely dripping in privilege, and the last thing I want to do is let these precious few months go to waste. Do I batten down the hatches and travel up and down the west coast? Write that novel that has been occupying the whole left side of my brain? Roll a few dubies down by the river? I only know what I’m definitely not going to do, and that is to let shame and insecurity get in the way of being my true self. In this time of corruption and uncertainty we can do nothing but assert our humanity, and I have found no feeling to be as liberating as giving in to my imperfections, hopefully finding the humor in them.

 

So much more easily said than done, the road to self-acceptance extends far beyond my vision and I’m sure I’ll be traveling it for some time. The past few months have been a whirlwind of both anticipation for the new life I am building and the reflection of the fast, fleeting summer I leave in my wake. I am no longer a lone sojourner in a new city but one half of a partnership that seems to grow stronger and more powerful by the day. It’s never been so easy to share everything that I have. Jenny possesses the same bold sweetness of that 12 year old girl I befriended ten years ago, but now holds in her presence a mysterious wisdom and poise that is both terrifying and electrifying. I did it, I got mushy and sentimental, but I’ve honestly never felt more entitled to it. Just the other day we were perched up on our rooftop patio in the prime real estate area of King’s Heights, where we were parked for the night above a city that seemed a hell of a lot smaller than it used to. It was one of the many times in my life that I became aware of the fact that I have everything in the world; that knowledge has so far been my best defense against the inevitable lows of adulthood.