What to do with my life?
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It was 2005. I was sitting by my window looking out on the parking lot. I have lived here, in this Tarazana (Los Angeles) apartment for the past 2 years.
I worked as a salesman for a closet company. Everyday I would walk into a new house trying to get this potential client to sign a contract the same day. I like meeting new people, however here it worked awkward: the more the person lowered their defense and trustful, the more I could charge. Along the 2 years I worked there I my eyes became jittery and I could not look into even my fiends eyes. I felt I was poisoning my sole. Everyday I would leave a new friendship I made knowing they are up for a surpise when the company doesn't keep the date for instalation and the quality they've seen at the catalog is not what they're going to get. Like a snow avalanche, the company kept boosting it's name in advertising stronger then the bad rumors and feedback could catch up with.
All those perks: challenge to outperform myself by befriending, designing clever solutions and have most of the day free to sit in coffee shops, play, shop, go out in evenings... It took time to realize that despite all these the job I loved was corrupting me.
Almost every evening I had a headache or nausea for which I treated myself to a cigarette and a glass of scotchan evening with a friend at a restaurant, a party a hike and a cigarette with a glass of scotch to curb down the headache of rent and bills once in a few days.
The apartment building used to be housing for elders and many of them were still living there even once it started renting out to the general public. "If I keep sitting here, soon my wheeled office chairwill turn into a wheelchair" the feeling crawled up on me while watching the elders in the manor get loaded on their van every day outside my window.
That was the trigger to packing it all up into a storage space and leaving for India with a backpack and ticket open for a year.
Lucky being lost: http://jpgmag.com/stories/15772
In the story Crash Landing.
Also by Etan Doronne
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