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Occasionally I’d even make myself late to work, blaming the awful L. I stretched the definition of affordability by taking a studio apartment within 20 minutes of work, cramming my belongings into 250 square feet of glorified tenement housing while my savings vanished like a roach in the daylight. They were converting perfectly livable, neglected space into their own white-collar Walden for the working man. But before it became necessary, it seemed impossible.
I put my dreams of traveling and writing on hold so I could stabilize my living situation. Yawning myself awake in an empty office, that impossibility disappeared. Waking up with a pumping adrenal gland wasn’t ideal, but it was better than lying in bed knowing your hours were auctioned off to a status quo you never wanted in the first place. Growing up in a small town near the Gulf of Mexico, life was more about community than profit.
I figured I could suffer for a bit in the meantime. I got a hefty hospital bill for a surgery earlier that year. A few months earlier, I stopped by the office on a late-weeknight assignment. The land of business plazas was a veritable ghost town, a blank spot on the map, stripped naked from the daytime bustle. My parents stressed achievement, but championed leisure.
By the summer of 2012, those dreams gave way to a nightmare. With existing student loans, a car payment and my rent set for its maximum-allowable annual increase under the California law, I started to wonder: What happened to my American Dream? Without money, I had two choices: Give up my dreams of working creatively or surrender my time working even more. Around that time, the news was filled with stories about an influx of U. My sister and I were pushed to make straight A’s, earning annual road trip vacations to diverse locales—beautiful Fort Walton Beach, Florida, historic Williamsburg, Virginia, or rustic Bangor, Maine.
The morning sun burned through the chicken-scratch graffiti of the office’s front door, spilling across the labyrinth of desks spread out before me. A little paranoia goes a long way when you live in a 10-square-feet workstation. Under normal circumstances I’d still be asleep, but these circumstances were far from normal. Not everyone aspires to have their co-workers catching them at their desk in their tighty-whities—at 6 in the morning.
Located in the lobby of the Sheriff's Office, a secure collection box has been placed to accept all unwanted and/or expired medications.
When you turn on Track Changes, Word marks up new changes made to the document.
When you turn off Track Changes, Word stops marking up new changes.
To take advantage of this program, simply bring these items to the Sheriff's Office.
A staff member will direct you to the collection box.