Mucho gusto, mi amigo nuevo

The blogging world has always been both mysterious and intriguing to me. Yes, I was addicted to xanga at the age of sixteen, and I did post, hoping whoever I was so inconspicuously addressing would read, know it applied to them, and obey my subliminal commands. After a long hiatus, during which time I learned that simply asking is a much more effective way to approach situations, I have returned. So what brings me?

I am twenty-two and until graduating college, I had never been away from family and home for more than two weeks. Feeling the allure of adventure and experience, I moved to Virginia- and while its residents would insist that it is infinitely superior to Cleveland, I find myself skeptical. No, it is not across the world, but for a girl who loved nothing more than Sunday dinner at Grandma's, at times it feels like Jupiter.

Although there were many factors influencing my decision, the most obvious is that I was fortunate enough to get a job post-grad. Excited? Certainly. Prepared to leave a world where skipping class was routine and a midnight beer always an option? Not necessarily.

Thomas Jefferson's city of Charlottesville was completely foreign to me prior to interviewing, but we have become acquainted quite quickly. Still, I feel something is missing; as someone who typically spends her summers working three jobs, clocking 70 hours a week, the usual nine to five is simply not fulfilling. Sure, I play tennis. I have considered bartending- I actually applied once, but I feel this would negatively affect my performance as an analyst, and since I expect this to be a stepping stone in my illustrious career, my sensible side advised against it. Then. I thought about cooking. Two things prohibited me from pursuing this passion. While I love a good meal, I am perfectly content eating grilled chicken, and when no one is singing the praises of my hard work or paying for the ingredients, I lack motivation. I have been told I could volunteer, which sounds wonderful in theory, but if I followed every appealing theory, I would be collecting money from those working hard while I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter and pickles. I also attempted to teach myself piano, but promptly gave up when I could not find the power button- since when were pianos electric?

I do love to write, though. I am not a writer, nor do I aspire to be. Coming from a family of English majors, I stand proudly by the fact that I went through four years of college without taking a single English class. Please excuse my lack of metaphors or witty idioms and references to great literature, because the last book I read in its entirety was "O, the Places You Will Go" by Dr. Seuss at Pedro the bird's funeral.

I am not sure what will come of this relationship. My neglected journal can attest to my inconsistency. I can promise, though, that whatever and whenever I write, it will be honest. Perhaps it will be a humorous anecdote of my ridiculously awkward life (should I feel my life is temporarily stagnate, I can certainly pull from the overflowing archive); perhaps we will meet on a day when I have watched one too many romantic comedies and feel that Prince Charming is, in fact, the boy who had my exact Starbuck's order - coffee. Fear not, however, if this is the case, a week later I will be relaying our embarrassing love affair that inevitably ends with coffee all over me as I tried to make small talk at the condiment bar. Wherever this venture leads, I hope to make someone laugh.