It occurred to me that today is the three year anniversary of my move from Fallbrook to the Greater Los Angeles area. On October 23, 1999, I loaded most of my worldly belongings in to the white Chevy Prism I was renting at the time (as my 1992 Honda Civic had recently been in an accident and was being repaired) and drove up to the fair city of Pasadena. I moved into the apartment that I was sharing with two complete strangers, Larry and Craig. Immediately, it was obvious that the situation was not going to work out, primarily because of age difference. I was 25 years old, Larry was 40 and Craig was 30. I was a starry eyed youth who was not too concerned with doing the dishes or taking out the trash or anything along those lines. They were old men who were set in their ways. Not to mention the fact that Larry was completely insane. I had been connected with them because Larry worked at the Shoah Foundation, where I was scheduled to begin working on October 25, having left my job at Wells Fargo Bank in Encinitas far behind, as well as all my friends, family and Filiberto's.

It's no secret that for probably my first year and a half up here I was a miserable person with very few friends who hated everything about this hellish megalopolis. I lived with Larry and Craig for about five months and at that point things were so bad between the three of us that it was decided that I should move out. That was fine with me, so I managed to find a quaint little apartment on North Mentor Avenue, just north of the 210-Freeway, where I lived four about 8 months before deciding to move over here to Montrose in order to save money.

Anyway, suffice it to say that I am now quite happy living in the Greater Los Angeles area and really have no desire to leave any time soon. I just seems weird to me that it's been three years already. I honestly didn't expect to stay this long. I originally planned on returning to San Diego county after about a year. But then one year turned into two. Friends and family from that area either moved away or just slowly drifted out of touch, and it began to feel less and less like home. Now when I go down to visit, there's only one or two people whom I make it a point to see. When I drive by the house in which I grew up, it feels strange because there are now other people living there. Somebody else's dog running in the backyard, not mine. Some other kid's swingset sits on the lawn, and my bedroom is now used by somebody else. It's strange to be unable to just walk into that house at any time and grab some food from the refrigerator, and sit down on the couch and switch on the television. My parents still own the house, and it's possible that they may someday move back there, but I have to wonder if I'll ever have another Christmas or Thanksgiving there or even if I'll ever set foot inside the house again, or if it will eventually be passed on to some other family.