First, let me just say: finding a job in New York sucks.

I’m not sure how many of you can empathize with this plight of mine, but there it is. Maybe it’s the economy gone to shit that’s messing with my chances, maybe it’s my lack of a skill-set (I was a Theatre major, so that’s helpful), and maybe it’s the universe working against me. I’m beginning to lean toward the latter. And let me tell you why.

The plan was for my girlfriend and I to drive my dad’s car back to New Mexico from Cape Cod for him, dog in tow, and hang for a few weeks while we took care of some business.

Business being: sell my car, attend a graduation, apply like crazy for jobs, have a yard sale to sell off some of my bigger furnishings and assorted useless belongings, attend a few birthday parties, see some friends and then pack a small U-Haul and head back to Cape Cod, where we would continue the job hunt and when interviews appear, take the train to NYC and hope to not screw anything up. If we accomplish all of this, we would then do the apartment hunting thing, which, from all accounts, is a miserable experience.

So we got back just fine, dog in tow, and a few days later, head to the graduation.

In my car.

Which I had just secured a sale for.

And that’s when shit hits the fan. Or perhaps timing belt would be more specific.

Let me preface this by admitting to a childish knowledge of automobiles. Seriously, I’m not even sure what kind of engine my car has.

With that out of the way, here’s what happened. My girlfriend and I are chugging down the highway when the coolant light begins flashing red.

We pull off, and after consulting the book, discover that red is bad. Like in an M. Night Shyamalan film.

The car had just been taken in for a complete check-up, however, and the diagnosis was a failed coolant temperature gauge. I take this to mean that the red is a malfunction. So we drive.

Check engine light illuminates.

A loud, irksome clicking sound emits from the engine.

Red coolant light disappears.

Blue coolant light appears.

Red coolant light reappears.

White smoke plumes from the bumper.

We pull off at the nearest exit, in the geh-het-ooo, stopping first at a light, where it appears Cheech and Chong must be in our car, as it is surrounded by smoke. Engulfed. Blanketed.

It’s in the shop as we speak, where they will undoubtedly screw me out of money I don’t have and I’ll bend over and take it cause shit if I know how to fix it.

Next comes the yard sale.

We rent a truck, move everything out of storage and bring it back to my dad’s garage.

We sort through the rubble, cut our belongings in half, and start pricing.

That’s when my back died. Bad. Real bad.

So bad I couldn’t get out of bed the following morning from the excruciating pain.

So bad that when I got out of bed, I couldn’t get in the car.

So bad that when I got to the hospital, the nurse looked at me and asked, “How old are you?” before chuckling gleefully at my response of 26.

But they gave me drugs. Vicodin and muscle relaxants, and the pain is beginning to subside. I can get up without aide of a cane now.

I’m a firm believer in the rule of three. As in, everything comes in threes. As in, Samuel L. Jackson should be a dead man after his Soul Men co-stars Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes bit the proverbial dust.

Three could come in any form, I realize this. After a thrown out back and trashed car, three could be an ugly son-of-a-bitch. Like McCain getting elected. Or butthole rape. Out of the two, I’d take the butthole rape.

But fuck it! Bring whatever you got! Cause if there’s one thing I’m taking out of this, it’s that God doesn’t want people moving to NYC, cause that’s where all the gays, Jews and liberal elite live.

And that’s exactly why I’m going.