The last several months have presented a barrage of work, my sleep patterns becoming more and more futile. As of Thursday evening, all of my class projects have ended and I am prepared to complete the semester with my finals (which should be cake, compared to what I have been through).
What a way to end the semester, though, up at IHOP during the busiest weekend of the year, the Testicle Festival weekend.
Yes, we’ve been through this before. Here’s to hoping that I don’t get accosted by drunk “alternative lifestyle” guys. Instead, being accosted by scantily clad inebriated women would be much more preferable.
Of course, I jest, as at this point in time, I’m content with idling the hours away buried deep within my music ignoring the human chaos around me, the eye of the proverbial drunken storm.
I’m trying to figure out what would be different about moving elsewhere, assuming that’s still an option to me. I have a couple of interesting prospects, but I’m just not sure what these places hold for me. There are aspects of home that I absolutely adore, reasons that would make leaving more than a little difficult.
The Testicle Festival is not one of those reasons, almost needless to say.
Instead, this morning, Joe and I went garage saleing again, as usual. I think I bought a notebook for a dollar. Joe purchased nothing. Of course, as per tradition once the garage saleing has been completed, we did eat at Mom’s.
Not anyone’s matriarchal figure in particular, just “Mom’s”. You know that restuarant in your town with that never needs to advertise? The one that survives on the word of mouth alone? The alone that actually tastes like real, honest-to-god food for a change? Instead of the processed feces we eat and laughingly refer to as sustenance?
Yeah, that place. That’s one of the reasons. IHOP is another, although not right now.
As the semester grows nigh and the academic year begins tying itself down, the little desperate goals of instructor and student alike get tied up and set aside, the next few months look more and more inviting, because of one simple reason:
I will no longer feel like the eye of the storm. Instead, the storm will have dispersed, as students evacuate this place en masse like water vapor disorganizes as a thundercloud dies. Of course, in any dispersal, there are always casualties, and friends and loved ones will no longer be here.
When will my dispersal be? Will it be after I’ve shuffled off this educational coil? Or shall I try to leave as soon as possible to receive that degree at another fine institution of higher learning? Perhaps I’ll never leave, and my presence in this town will always be stuck, smack in the middle of the center of this godforsaken storm of chaotic people? I know that the decision is mine, that I can leave any time I want, that I can get some of my things, hop in the car, and take off for parts unknown, or at least unknown to me.
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