Well I guess I'm officially 23. I watched the second hand of the clock creep past midnight while slouching in a chair at the Denver Post office, punching numbers into a database to keep track of the election results. It's occurred to me that this might be the closest I ever get to making money with my journalism degree.

The guy who's calling in the results from Larimer county is also a graduate, also working in a restaurant, also frustrated that this gig is the most he's seen of a journalism job since graduation. Somehow, it was the most comforting thing I'd heard in months: There are, in fact, others who are struggling to find jobs in their field. Somehow I need to keep perspective in mind: A vast majority of the world doesn't get to do what they would like to do as a career. They just work to make ends meet. Perspective, perspective.

Doesn't keep all the worries from swirling around in my head though, a list very similar to Dawn's: job, boyfriend, God, next year, family, friends, job, boyfriend, job, God, next year, family friends job job job. Picking up momentum, like rolling a boulder down a hill.

Mainly, the problem is all the feelings this job situation elicits: mainly worthlessness, hopelessness, powerlessness. Lies.

There are ways to fight it, of course: Talking to God. Writing. Writing has always made me feel less like a child hunched in a dark corner. It makes me feel more as though I can hold my head up, look the world in the eye. And meeting international students, making them feel welcome and less alone makes me feel less alone. And being around people who seem to value me. Being around people who say they value me.

I'm tired and very hungry, and I'm ready to go home.

I also can't help thinking, sometimes, that I wish I were Home.