Prodigal Son-Of-A-Bitch
And so, I return. I return in many ways; to the blog, to St. Louis, to the suite itself... forced into a double room, as a freshman, I did not have the pleasure of returning to a room which had been undisturbed for nearly three weeks. Opening the door to my Suite 3100 single (Room 3102) was like entering a hotel room that had all my things in it. It still smells like me, though I hardly spent any time here during finals.
The holidays are hell for me. Thanksgiving clear on to New Year's just seems like everyone else's party, while I sit and gnaw on cold turkey. I hate holiday food, with a passion that consumes my very vitals. I get no relief until New Years' Day, on which my mother serves a pork roast, collard greens and black-eyed peas; this is, apparently, a Southern superstition that claims a meal such as this one wards off bad luck in the coming year. Though fattened and spoiled by her wealth, my mother retains some traces of her rural roots. I don't scorn her for it; where she came from is better than where she is.
I spent my New Year's Eve, to employ a terrible cliché, cold and alone. I hate everyone I knew in high school, and my overarching apathy kept me from looking for places to go. I sat in my room and watched TV. As a side note, Dick Clark's post-stroke countdown was one of the most horrifying things I've ever seen. There he was, in stunning high-definition, mumbling and prattling on about how great it was to be there, how many people were in the crowd... anyone else who watched already knows that he botched the countdown. "10, 9, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Year!" In Dick Clark's oxygen-deprived mind, 2006 rang in a whole two seconds early, this year. I pity him, honestly I do, but the walking dead should not be allowed on TV.
My drive back to St. Louis was peaceful, which is a new thing for me. I took a picture of a bridge that I go over every trip. I once took a picture of the same bridge while chauffering a stuffed skunk from Atlanta to St. Louis (a sort of bizarre gift to my freshman floor RA, Ruby).
Somehow, it's good to be back. It's good to be anywhere at all, after being nowhere for the last three weeks.
That is all, I guess.
The holidays are hell for me. Thanksgiving clear on to New Year's just seems like everyone else's party, while I sit and gnaw on cold turkey. I hate holiday food, with a passion that consumes my very vitals. I get no relief until New Years' Day, on which my mother serves a pork roast, collard greens and black-eyed peas; this is, apparently, a Southern superstition that claims a meal such as this one wards off bad luck in the coming year. Though fattened and spoiled by her wealth, my mother retains some traces of her rural roots. I don't scorn her for it; where she came from is better than where she is.
I spent my New Year's Eve, to employ a terrible cliché, cold and alone. I hate everyone I knew in high school, and my overarching apathy kept me from looking for places to go. I sat in my room and watched TV. As a side note, Dick Clark's post-stroke countdown was one of the most horrifying things I've ever seen. There he was, in stunning high-definition, mumbling and prattling on about how great it was to be there, how many people were in the crowd... anyone else who watched already knows that he botched the countdown. "10, 9, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Year!" In Dick Clark's oxygen-deprived mind, 2006 rang in a whole two seconds early, this year. I pity him, honestly I do, but the walking dead should not be allowed on TV.
My drive back to St. Louis was peaceful, which is a new thing for me. I took a picture of a bridge that I go over every trip. I once took a picture of the same bridge while chauffering a stuffed skunk from Atlanta to St. Louis (a sort of bizarre gift to my freshman floor RA, Ruby).
Somehow, it's good to be back. It's good to be anywhere at all, after being nowhere for the last three weeks.
That is all, I guess.
posted by Alfonzo Debussy | 1:35 AM
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