There's something about the rain softly hitting my window that always inspires me to write.

It's weird being a part of the city yet being so far away from it. I'm more of a fan of the place I lived where the rain was drowned out by passing city cars, honks and occasional swearing from everyday outdoor dwellers.

There's something about the silence of my new home that irks me. City sounds are comforting, reminding me that I'm not far from the excitement down below and that any time I want to I could leave my nice warm bed and go on an adventure.

The sounds of rain on my window, birds chirping and church bells do not spell out adventure for me and do not call me to leave my nice warm bed.

I can't complain though.

Right now, I'm in the process of breaking every body in my life into two categories - east coast or west coast.

I'm currently on the east coast sides of things with four different seasons and the required diet of coffee and cigarettes. The cold coast where they'll look at you crooked if you're friendly or hold the door open for them. Nobody has time and there's never enough of it.

I've come to the conclusion that being all sunshine and rainbows, as I am, I'm more of a west coast person. I like warmer climates, relaxed environments and falling asleep with sand in my hair.

Also, I'm blonde. How can east coast blondes do you know who aren't just fooling themselves?

And what does that mean for the rest of my time being spent on the east coast? Is it my job to bring a little bit of sunshine to dreary New York and Philadelphia?

Naw. My job is avoid wearing black at all costs, smile at strangers on subways and never ever fall for an east coast boy who drinks scotch and thinks his art should be all about being as dark and twisty as possible.



If there's no room for unicorns in your life, there's no room for me.

California, come take me home.