Total Meltdown

Now that I'm not attending classes at Stanford, I'm totally freaking the fuck out.
I came out to California for only one purpose, and that was to complete my college education. And now that that's not happening, I'm at a total loss as what I should do next.
Yesterday as I sipped my Peet's coffee over the New York Times, it hit me that I'm UNEMPLOYED. I am fucking unemployed. I might as well sign up for food stamps and start buying St. Ides because I don't have a job nor am I interviewing for jobs. I am GHETTO. I'm sorry I don't understand how people can stay unemployed for long periods of time, because life is fucking boring when you aren't working and you don't have the freedom to buy whatever the fuck you want. And even if I was loaded, just hanging out wouldn't work for me. I'd at least do charity and become a socialite.

I have needs, people. I need Dermalogica products, frequent trips to the tanning salon, and ketel one vodka. I need cashmere sweaters, Dolce Jeans, and Dior sunglasses. And hanging out in this hippie enclave has made me aware of my shallow needs, but I don't give a flying fuck. I'd much rather be a superficial dick than a smelly pothead with no ambition.

Capitialism breeds ambition and materialism, and I love it. Almost as much as I love my Helmut Lang sweater.

So now what? Move back to NYC and work in a bar? God no. If I have to server one more ugly f*g, I'll give myself bleached tips.
The trouble with NYC is that it's ree-dick-ulousy expensive. People have tried to tell me that SF is just as expensive, but I don't know where the fuck you're hanging out in SF, because that's not true babe.
I've seen plenty of FOR RENT signs out here, and my rent here gets me considerably more than what I would get in Manhattan.
Living in NYC, it's almost impossible to save, and even harder to stay away from the seductions of nightlife and partying. There's always a hot party going off in New York. If it's not the usual Sunday night gay marathon, then it's an Alegria or a special event at Bungalow. And while the parties are incredible, they do get in the way of your career. Well it does for me anyway. After a night of partying, I'm a total retard. I stare at the computer screen and drool. My dick's often sore from having made out with some random boy who my friends will later inform me was totally disgusting, and I will still smell like cigarette smoke. So no, I can't go out and work a real job.

But I do have several hard-core partying friends who somehow make it to the office by 7am after having stayed up all night. One of them is this gorgeous girl whom I'll refer to as LDLC. She's the hot girl who'll walk into a bar mid-winter in a short mini-skirt and knee high boots. She's the girl that the other girls glare at with angry envy, and she's also the girl who'll outdrink and outparty any gay man. In short, LDLC is my kind of girl. Hot, amibitious, and crazy.
When we lived together, we'd often go out and go bar hopping. The morning after I'd be in bed ordering pizza and looking like a total piece of shit. Huge bags under my eyes and nauseaus. LDLC would run up the stairs and look as if she'd had a full nights rest. Dewey skin, full-lips, and smelling of Chanel. Fucking bitch. I'd cut her up and snort her like a line if I didn't love her so much.

So I'm now actually toying with the idea of staying here in CA for the next year so that I can go ahead and finish Stanford, and give myself enough time to find a decent job in New York? But I don't know how much longer I can last in CA. My life, my friends, and the EX are all back in New York. And I'm starting to realize that my being has become very much intwined with the island of Manattan. This native son of CA is now a New Yorker, and like every other annoying Manhattanite, I don't want to live anywhere else.