Last Monday afternoon, I was sitting in my apartment, drinking tea(you thought I was going to say beer, didn’t you?) wishing I didn’t have to go to work.  I picked up my diary, and this is what I wrote:

Monday, September Something, 2011

“Everyone is moving away.  Leaving Toronto.  I’m going nowhere, of course.  Even though I fantasize about having a career better than the one I have now, I certainly do nothing to excelerate it’s possibility.  I’m sitting in my blue, lazy boy recliner, drinking tea, trying to ween myself away from my social media addiction.  I’d love to finish the blog I started writing four months ago.  I will finish it tomorrow, of course.   (Hahaha.  Right.)   Why am I so naturally happy?  Is this what causes my laziness?  Would I be working my ass off right now, trying to “make it happen” if I was  a miserable person?   This morning I actually felt slightly down.  Not depressed or anything, I’m just sick of the routine.  A non-stop juggle between bartending to pay the bills, and doing stand up, to keep my dreams alive.  I keep thinking about the Leap of Faith.  It’s pure craziness.  Just quit the job and see if that makes me hungry enough to write more.  Apply/submit for writing jobs.  Hunt down gigs.  These are things I should actively be doing and I’m not.  I could bust out that blog right now.  But instead, I’ll probably just throw a pizza in the oven, and paint my nails.”

And that’s exactly what I did, of course.  I also wrote a little bit about a crush, but that’s not the point of this blog.  Neither is the fact that I never know the date when I write in my diary.  The point is, I was doing my usual afternoon ritual of playing with my side bangs and day dreaming about change.

That night, I was at work and something weird happened.  Some sort of response to my diary entry.  I’m a bartender.  Around 9:30pm, the restaurant starts to die down.   I retreat behind the bar and grab my iphone, which is hidden underneath the Irish Whiskeys(I’m guessing no service industry employees are supposed to have their phones on them, but as previously mentioned, I have a serious social media addiction.  Follow me on Twitter @walkinsauce)  I decide to check my email, as it will give me notifications from both Twitter and Facebook in one spot.  That’s when I see the email.  An email from the booker of the San Francisco Comedy Competition.  I open it immediately, and there it is.  An offer to be in the competition.  The only problem is, I need to be in San Francisco by Wednesday.  “That’s impossible,” I think to myself.  “I have a lot of shifts this week.  I think there’s a big party on Wednesday night that the bar needs me for.”  I put my phone back under the Bushmills, and head back to the main part of the bar, where my co-worker Grant is enjoying a post-shift pint.  I tell him about my last minute offer for the comedy competition, and how I wish I could go, but I can’t.

“Fuck that! Go!” He says.  What?  I can’t fly across the continent with such short notice.  I have responsibilities.  My boss probably already hates me for the time I take off for paying gigs, let alone the ones that just offer a possibility of money.  I tell Grant I can’t.  Then Jordie, my other co-worker, who’s a super talented actress/singer doing the “living the dream” thing too, pipes in.

“Christina.  Go!”  What?  What’s with all this crazy advice?  What about my shifts?  What about my about my Kitchener gig next week?  I can’t do this.  I just can’t.  That’s when Grant grabs the schedule, and a piece of paper and basically gives away all my shifts for me.  In less than a pint, he pretty much frees up my whole week.

“See.  You can go!  Go!!!”  I finally realize he’s right.  They’re both right.  I’ve just spent the whole day wishing I could just runaway and be a writer/comedian for a while, without the stress of a day job.  Now, an opportunity comes my way to do exactly that, and I want to turn it down because I think I need to be in Toronto to pour Shamrocks on top of Guinness pints all week.(I don’t wanna brag, but I do it well.)

Twenty four hours later, I’m on a plane to the west coast.   I can’t believe I did it.  I’m not even sure I’ll have a job when I get home, and I feel slightly crazy for coming here, but I’m glad I did.  As I get older, I notice I’m losing some of my spontaneity.  I’m also the same girl who moved to Huntington Beach when she was 23, for a guy who she met in a bar in Vegas, who convinced her she was his “soulmate.”  Sometimes, I forget I can still be that girl.

Salutations from San Francisco,

Comedian Girl.

(But seriously, you can follow me on Twitter @walkinsauce)

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