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That awkward space between reality and reality television.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
It's midnight and I pull out of the Bolinwood parking lot with a box of Tide in my lap. It was the unfortunate last piece to an ill-conceived puzzle that just didn't quite fit.
Generally, I'm quite the efficient packer, however, like often happens when I underestimate the size of my load, I failed to make use of this gift. When I know I'm going to be squeezed for space each piece of the puzzle fits seemlessly. It has to. I have always followed the rule, "if it don't fit in my car, it doesn't go home...or to school as the case may be." This time, though, I'm not going home. A four hour trip is trimmed to barely four minutes, so I carelessly tossed all my belongings into the car.
I feel a sharp stabbing sensation in my thigh as I truck on down Estes Drive. I had forgotten about the cell phone adaptor that I had stuffed in my pocket, but remember full well as it turns itself over and mistakes my leg for an electrical outlet. Two hands are insufficient for addressing the situation in my left pocket, keeping the car between the lines, and preventing the powder detergeant from making the steering wheel Mountain Spring fresh.
I sucked it up for another three miles.
I arrive at Foxcroft, a place that feels like home though I've never officially called it home. It was one stop on Possum's Homeless Plight Tour several months ago, but before that it played weekday residence to my car thanks to the ample parking spaces and the good friends that lived there for several years while I was in school.
You may ask yourself why I'm moving across town for two months then moving back to 302D. Let's just say that I was the first voted off the island. It wasn't so much a personality issue as a matter of seniority. That, and they knew that if they kept me around I was surely to win the $1 million. A country boy can survive.
A move every few months is always a good thing...it keeps my stalkers alert.
Generally, I'm quite the efficient packer, however, like often happens when I underestimate the size of my load, I failed to make use of this gift. When I know I'm going to be squeezed for space each piece of the puzzle fits seemlessly. It has to. I have always followed the rule, "if it don't fit in my car, it doesn't go home...or to school as the case may be." This time, though, I'm not going home. A four hour trip is trimmed to barely four minutes, so I carelessly tossed all my belongings into the car.
I feel a sharp stabbing sensation in my thigh as I truck on down Estes Drive. I had forgotten about the cell phone adaptor that I had stuffed in my pocket, but remember full well as it turns itself over and mistakes my leg for an electrical outlet. Two hands are insufficient for addressing the situation in my left pocket, keeping the car between the lines, and preventing the powder detergeant from making the steering wheel Mountain Spring fresh.
I sucked it up for another three miles.
I arrive at Foxcroft, a place that feels like home though I've never officially called it home. It was one stop on Possum's Homeless Plight Tour several months ago, but before that it played weekday residence to my car thanks to the ample parking spaces and the good friends that lived there for several years while I was in school.
You may ask yourself why I'm moving across town for two months then moving back to 302D. Let's just say that I was the first voted off the island. It wasn't so much a personality issue as a matter of seniority. That, and they knew that if they kept me around I was surely to win the $1 million. A country boy can survive.
A move every few months is always a good thing...it keeps my stalkers alert.
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