I want to tell you a story.

From 2004 to 2009 I attended one o’ them liberal arts colleges where I took classes with names like “Socialist Pottery” and “Calculus of the Old Testament.” I graduated seven short weeks ago. Faced with a lack of health insurance and a surplus of free time, getting a job seemed like a logical next step. I packed a bag and headed from Virginia to Los Angeles to find gainful employment. If I’m going to work until I die, I at least want it to be 72 degrees every day.

The job hunt is no easy thing. At any given moment the sentiment surrounding it lies somewhere between “miserable” and “hopeless.” It could all go horribly wrong, ending with me coked out and bleeding to death in a gutter somewhere on Mulholland Drive. Or I might catch a stroke of luck and score an entry level job where I’m overworked and underappreciated. Time will tell!

It’s hard to tell if I’ll fit in here well. I’ve got a cracked sense of humor and an ebullient, impetuous love of the Oxford English Dictionary. My brain is an out-of-control perpetual motion machine. Simply put, I CAN’T NOT put my thoughts in you.