I went into the big city of San Francisco all by myself. And I didn’t get lost or mugged or accosted or nothing.

Actually, I took the BART train in from San Bruno, so I kind of got a little teeny bit lost since I was aiming for South San Francisco. As I was taking the train in, I realized that I now live further out of the swinging metropolitan area than when I lived at Pat’s in Braintree.

M. really has made me a suburbanite. I might have to make him suffer for that crime.

Although, cruising down 280 or north on the 101 in a convertible sure as fucking hell makes the bitter, suburban pill a tad tastier. At least it’s not a Boston suburb with the prospect of a job north of where I live with a commute of slush and snow.

I’m feeling a bit better about the job thang. I went to a recruiter today, and I decided to be nothing but honest and straightforward on my hope for a slackerish gig. Once I was talking and realizing that in my old job I never, ever, ever worked a mere 40 hours a week (too often it was 60+), it sounded quite normal that I wouldn’t want that again.

He seemed pretty hip to the notion of a 40-hour gig (or less in my fantasy) in a comfortable environment without brain and body-cracking stress.

Man, when I think of my last job, I just bum out with the realization that the director was some kind of manipulator in a freakish, bad boyfriend, mental torture kind of way. Out here again in the real world, I remember kick ass writing skills and fucking aptitude for computers out my ass are saleable quantities. She wasn’t doing me a favor keeping me employed like she played.