**Just When Things Started Getting Normal…

This was written last year by a recent transplant to the Cheyenne, Wyoming area. Enjoy this ghost blog, and feel free to comment! ~Nomz and Sazaran


Ever notice how sometimes your life seems to sit at a mouth-gaping standstill? I notice that a lot. Except for the past few months, which have left me bewildered, standing in the proverbial dust-cloud of what-the-hell-was-that confusion. Sit down and sip your coffee, fans-o-my-blog, for you are about to embark on the Lifetime-movie-esque drama that is my 2008 thus far.

Picture me, sitting slack-jawed in a cubicle, writing story after monotonous story about golf courses, cigar rooms, bed and breakfasts, water parks and hotels claiming to be "the BEST!" "the ONLY!" and "just minutes from (insert super-awesome, world-renown tourist attraction here)". Wait… was that drool dripping between the B and N keys? Why, yes, yes it was. Aside from the somewhat mind-numbing subject matter, though, I was pretty happy with my shit-paying writing job. Living the dream, folks. Fo' shiz.
So, as I adjust to the non-corporate world and realize "hey, this place is totally effed up" I tell myself that it's all worth it because someday, I'll be J.K. Rowling, ruling the world via addictive fantasy book series featuring geeky magical pre-teens triumphing over dark, Hitler-ish dudes. Hopeful glimpse into future…check.
And, when my guard is totally down and my life seems almost too simple (i.e., get up, go to work, go home, chill with a Netflix, go to bed), the rug is pulled out from under me. The bomb drops. The shit hits the fan.
[That's right, I have invoked the triple-cliché whammy, which, as many writers know, is utterly forbidden except in times of total mind meltdown wherein the invoker has no other means of communication than trite discourse.]
Wednesday, February 13th, 7pm. I'm super lazed out, half asleep, half watching a Gilmore Girls rerun in my freshly laundered 800-thread-count sheets (thank you Mom). There's a knock at the door. (I swear, looking back it's like I'm watching a suspense thriller. I want to reach out and shake myself, screaming "don't answer the door, you IDIOT!") So, anyway. I don't answer the door, because I'm just that lazy and I figure it's probably somebody selling something or trying to get me to join their church and like, totally get saved. Um, yeah, I’ll pass. So, as I roll over, acknowledge the knock and think twice about getting up from my warm nest-o-pillowtop mattress and salt-vinegar chips, someone has made their way to the side of the house to bang on my window. My roommate must have locked herself out. So I drag myself out of bed, and stumble sleepily to the front door.
(Remember this as one of those significant moments before life and perspective are utterly altered. It is critical times like these that really should be remembered in that slow motion, bluish light type of atmosphere, where everything is just a little too normal and every heavy footstep to the door echoes just a little louder than it should.)
As the door swings open, the wind is blowing but the wind chimes are strangely still. Little things like this always stick out to me when I should be focusing on something really important and then I feel guilty that I'm noticing insignificant details about my surroundings. Two police officers and a priest are standing on the front porch, looking curiously serious. My I-just-answered-the-door-so-I'm-smiling-politely-face slowly fades to a this-has-to-be-really-bad-if-you-brought-a-priest face. Shit, shit, shit. That's all there really is to say.
Three hours later, and I'm sitting in Rogue Valley Medical Center ICU waiting room absent-mindedly gnawing on a burger from Wendy's and shaking my leg like a crack addict. My evening has transformed from middle-of-the-week sloth to something straight out of prime-time TV. For those of you who don't know, my roommate Gladys was hit by a car going 35 miles an hour at a crosswalk. She was thrown more than 50 feet and suffered a massive head injury, lacerated liver, broken ankle and road rash (which, in my opinion is a disturbingly inaccurate description of what looks more like some serious electric-sander-to-face action.)
I'd like to say I have the composure and sense to sort through the sorrowful events that went down that night, but this is really all I can muster up. Just know it was, by far, the worst thing I have ever witnessed. A week later (almost to the hour, in fact), Gladys died of a blood infection. As I stood by her bedside and watched in what only can be described as horror, Gladys' family cried, screamed and pounded fists at the sky as a daughter, sister and friend slowly faded away. All I remember is feeling painfully numb (yes, this is an oxymoron, but it's also about as close as I can get to truth). Really all I remember is leading Laura (my other roommate) out the door into the hallway, walking to the elevator, and trying to face the waiting room full of students sitting vigil outside the ICU. Telling them that their friend and classmate had just passed away was the worst thing I've ever had to do. It was all I could do to keep from running straight to my car and driving far, far away.
Two days after Gladys died, I came down with one of the worst colds I've ever had. Not much of a surprise, though, after all of the emotional stress I'd been under. Let's just say after about a week of coughing and feeling seriously beat down, I started throwing up blood. Three days after this fun little experience, I got laid off from my writing job due to lack of work. Thank you recession; thank you George Bush. Cue me, looking suspiciously at the sky and wondering if I'm being tested.

After a month of unemployment (and don't feel too bad for me, because I definitely enjoyed my 30 days of sleeping in, taking afternoon naps, reading for three hours straight at coffee shops), I finally threw in the towel and went back to the banking world. I know, I know. It's the one thing I said I'd never do. Damn you, irony, you little beyotch. Anyway, it wasn't so bad, and it was mindless, easy work, which was ever-so-necessary.

Just when you thought I couldn't depress you anymore, I will end my epic saga on a happy and hopeful note. Several weeks back into mediocre banking career, I was landed a job as a copywriter (you know, the "dream job" that actually utilizes my degree). I'm headed to Cheyenne Wyoming of all places, to start fresh in a new career and new town. Scared? Yes. Second guessing? Well, a little. Hopeful? Gotta be.