My current mood

I am not sure of myself, so I just keep writing. Not that it does any good, a little electic glow and the hum of a laptop are not good substiutes for company. I don't think a 90 characters is quite right to describe this, or at least my current situation; I decided to make my first entry on this site more of a public journal. With that being said, here we go.
I just moved from Brooklyn to Las Vegas. I am not entirely sure this was a goo move, but it meant more money, so what the hell, right? I despise gambling, and am accustomed to being able to walk through my neighborhood and see the character that had been developed through a hundred or so years of having such a mixed bag inhabit a miniscule piece of earth. The Mexicans and Puerto Ricans had developed all of limo services as the Indian cabbies hated the thought of going to Crooklyn. The Italians that hadn't moved to Jersey still operated their delis; allways festooned with salamis, whole prosciotto hams, mortadellas and a meat case that never seemed quite cold enough. Still you could get some of the best sandwiches their and get to chuckle at yourself when hearing some well-worn cliche like "capiche" or the ever standard greeting to those sweet dark-haired guidos: "How you doin'?" I always thought it was funny that the mexicans had taken over the pizza joints too.
The best nights I spent in big-bad-BK were the nights I spent angry at myself for not having a job. I would walk for hours, starting at aobut 9:30; find a pizza parlor I had not been into yet, or a shady chinese place and get a little sesame chicken. After eating I would buy a forty and throw it into my everpresent messenger bag and after I had emptied my fountain drink, pour my beer into the cup and sip my "Old E", then try my best to get lost. Often I found myself on Smith Street; a bustling place filled with bars restaurants and local shops that sold overpriced vintage shoes and records. There was always a couple of those shops that I could linger at window and wonder "Why the fuck would anyone pay 400 bucks, for a blazer that is falling apart?" Then I would notice the other part of the price tag: Yves Saint Laurent. All of a sudden I noticed hwo well the jacket hung on the mannequin. Oh, well, light up another cig. or a stogie and move on.
That was usually about the time the bars were filling, or as full as they would be for the night. I would see a group of kids walk into the some new swanky thai rest./bar that had its drink specials displayed; I scoffed at the prices, then remembered I was walking alone sipping beer from a paper cup, and freezing my ass off. I jsut had to get out of the house, I had been searching for jobs all day in the freezing cold, but was not about to sit at home and watch TV; that was reserved for early in the morning when I finally ambled home, a little drunk and depressed about seeing all the people leaving the bars as couples, when they had gone in as friends. Once more reminding me I was very, very alone. These walks did ease the pain, well, they just kept me in motion. All I needed was to keep my feet moving, and something would happen. Eventually it did, but before I even realized what was going on I decided to move to the City of Sin.
Thus far I have not done what the name implies. I don't like the idea of paying for sex; I would rather read or get some girl drunk and wait for her to tell me she wants to fuck. Then have her regret it later. I don't think of myself as a womanizer. I suppose I am jsut ambitious. With all the delights this desert life has to offer, I cna't get past the nagging feeling I will hate the whole thing before it is all said and done.
The reason why I say this is that I cna't walk around here. There is not the slightest hint of serenity. In New York, there is the hustle and bustle where around gives the slightest shit about who you are. You jsut can't be in the way, after that, people notice. Here is simply a cornucopia of new age gold diggers. When the mother lode stopped producing, suckers were imported to give away their personal stash. Bright lights intoxicate, sex hypnotizes, and booze lowers the defenses. You wake up with red eyes a headache and a sore dick, but above all an empty wallet. The whores and dealers gave a rats ass who you were there are ten million others waiting to do the same, then e-mail their buddies the pictures about the chick who stole his heart. Inexplicably there are a few credit cards missing too.
That is about the end of my rant for now. I just want a place that feels like home, wherever that happens to be. I can't shake the feeling of overall loneliness and I am getting fucking tired fo making new friends. We'll see, we'll see.