] My arrival in Atlanta lacked appropriate fanfare. No
] winsome blond belle greeted my plane, delicately boned
] hand upturned and cupping a gently ripened peach. I
] noticed the distinct absence of a military band playing a
] rousing rendition of "Dixie" in time with my heavy
] footfalls. Nowhere in sight was a swarthy limo driver in
] a fedora clutching a sign to his chest scrawled with my
] name. In fact, there was nothing at all to indicate that
] Atlanta was even remotely aware of my arrival. This was
] disappointing, as it's not every day that the City of a
] Hundred Hills welcomes a man of my stature. Twenty-five,
] overweight, unemployed and recently "relocated" to my
] parents' house in New Jersey, I am truly a man in full.
] Rather, I am a man fully in need of a job, which is why I
] was in Atlanta. Many moons had passed since I last set
] foot in an office, several more since I last received a
] legitimate paycheck. After a few months spent ferrying
] back and forth by bus across the toxic swamps of New
] Jersey and into Manhattan to search for something,
] anything, while my enthusiasm waned, I had a break. The
] break came in the form of an interview with the sales
] team of a well-regarded consulting firm in Atlanta. In
] retrospect, I should have stayed home and burned myself.
] It would have been less painful, and left me with
] arguably more attractive scars. But after all