Home, Sour Home

After ten days of gorgeous sun, the clouds rolled in and the rain began to spit. It could only mean one thing. Home was calling. The only problem being, I wasn’t calling back. The best things in life might be free, but the best places in the world are expensive and money always runs out. And the necessary evil that is work has to once again commence.

I sat in Kitchen24, a delicious cafe off Selma/Coehenga in Hollywood. The clouds covered the once sea like sky. The group of friends who resided behind my table sipped black coffee, nursing what could only be severe hangovers.

Three was no doubt that everyone was feeling it. The Sunday Fear is alive and well, and I was certainly feeling it more than others.

The only way I can describe having to leave Los Angeles, is like being sentenced to serve time. Okay it’s not that’s severe, but there’s no denying that my mood was so down, it might as well have been in Antartica.

The bags got packed. The keys to the W got handed back. The cab got called, and the coffee suddenly tasted bitter.

Home began to fly faster and faster towards me. Reality started to rear its ugly head. And then the taxi broke down. A silver lining? I thought. Fat chance. Los Angeles might not have wanted to get rid of me, but Ireland wasn’t going to let go that easy.

I have people to get back to, which does make the pain of leaving my vision of perfection much easier to swallow. My boyfriend, my friends, my family are all certainly worth heading 5,000 miles across mountains, deserts, snow, sea and sun to be with, but a part of me slightly wishes they could just come to me and I could stay.

I could just live in a cute apartment, in WeHo and work as a PR guru to the stars. The bae could be a HR consultant for the movie studios. And my friends could always be waiting on a couch at The Vitamin Cafe (well this is WeHo after all).

I could own a French bulldog. Call him Monty, and show him one stylish life. Me and bae would decorate the apartment in only the most fashionable and stylish garb. Walk our dog in Beverly Park and proudly hold hands as we stroll down Santa Monica Blvd.

Every weekend would see another bar, where new shows would be watched and new friends would be made. Hangover Sunday’s would involve a quick workout in 24HR Fitness, followed by a delicious meal in PUMP.

I would wear only the latest fashions, purchased either from the high end boutiques of Melrose, or keep up with the latest UK styles from Topman in The Grove. Which of course would lead to a cheat meal in The Cheesecake Factory.

Wouldn’t that be the life? But reality doesn’t like life and vice versa. So instead, I go through a body scanner in LAX and prepare to spend the next sixteen hours travelling.

Consolation comes from the love I have for my boyfriend. And knowing he will be waiting for me come Friday.

Felling Bittersweet,

Irish gay x

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