I’ve spent my past few weekends participating in one of mankind’s darkest rituals. An exhausting, taxing marathon of an ordeal which sapped my soul of its strength and rendered my normal personality, (usually described as “bubbly”), into something more resembling John C McGinley in Point Break. At some point in time, I found myself behind the wheel of a 24 foot long diesel truck. I had no idea how I got there. Weeks later, things still aren’t back to normal. Accomplishing the smallest tasks takes much longer than it used to. I’m frequently disoriented. I’ve tried to order a sandwich at what turned out to be a wig shop twice (that I can remember.) Yes, in case you can’t tell, I’ve moved recently.
Typical Conor Reaction When Told You Can’t Get Deli Mustard On A Wig
When we first moved to San Diego, it was a no brainer for my girlfriend Lauren and I to pick a place to live: Pacific Beach. With an average of 17 restaurants/bars on every block, affordable rent, gorgeous weather and the almighty omnipresent BEACH, how could you go wrong?
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Our Apartment For The Past Three Years (Note Proximity To Beach)
PB has its detractors, namely the rest of San Diego. This is because if you wanted to find representative photos of the typical PB dweller, you could consult the Google Image search results for “dudes“, “douchebag“, or “girls gone wild“. I found myself defending the neighborhood over the course of my stay there, albeit with less and less fervor as time went by. I gradually came to realize that living in Pacific Beach is like dating a hot, crazy girl. It’s great at first. You get to trot her out in front of all your friends. They’re wowed at the beauty and luxury that you have managed to obtain. But when your friends go home, you are the one dealing with her psychosis on a daily basis. You’re the one that has to convince her that ripping out “that ho’s” hair extensions because she made eye contact with her from across the bar is not a good idea, just as in PB you’re the one dealing with some dude who calls you “bra” while he drunkenly explains to you why he’s simultaneously peeing and puking in your yard.
But for better or for worse, Pacific Beach was our home for four years. And for every time the girl across the street snorted an unidentified substance off her desk with her french doors open while we served my onlooking parents and extended family dinner on our patio, there were an equal number of days spent floating on waves or lying on the sand, knowing that life was good. So as we cleaned our house for the final time last Friday, I grew a bit sentimental. Our tiny apartment was the basis of many a great memory, and I wasn’t sure if I was prepared to leave them all behind. All the music we had listened to, all the meals shared with friends, all the fires we gathered around on the patio, all the spontaneous runs to Ralphs, would soon be left behind for the great unknown of our new house in North Park. As the clock struck 10 PM and a seven hour cleaning process was winding down, I stood on the dark, empty patio and wondered if we had made the right decision.
At that precise moment, an SUV drove by, going double the speed limit and a girl leaned out the window and without a hint of irony or self awareness shrieked out “WOOOOOOOOO SPRING BREAK!!!!”
Well, I thought. Time to go home.