And they both reached for the gun.

So this past weekend brought yet another trip to the Cities, which I feel as if I blogged about not so long ago. Then again, the last year feels like the blurriest of blurs, so what can you do?

My week leading up to Minneapolis began in the shittiest of forms. During the weekend I’d learned that my lung-cancer ridden grandfather had run out of treatment options and had begun hospice, so a detour to my hometown was planned…..just in case. Monday through Wednesday included double shifts–work from 8 a.m. till 10 p.m at both jobs, all the while feeling like crying. Thursday I finished work at 4 and got to experience two cities worth of rush hour plus getting pulled over for going 76 mph in a 65 mph zone (though thankfully it only resulted in a warning–my third, but who’s counting??) and arriving at my parent’s house half an hour later than I should have. A night of gin and shots with my best friend from high school cured the first of the week, but going to have a goodbye breakfast with my grandparents the next morning was still no picnic.

Cut to Friday evening: I have a pleasant drive up to Minneapolis, singing wildly to tunes from Mamma Mia!, Chicago, and Across the Universe, and greeting the welcoming St. Paul skyline through the glare of the setting autumn sun. However, once I arrive, I realize that my bestie Xenia has gotten her car towed due to pesky street-cleaning procedures. On our way to the impound lot, I run over a giant block of wood or some such thing while going 55 or so on 394…..a highway it turns out we didn’t need to be on in the first place, thanks to faulty Google directions. I see my hubcap fly off, and we quickly pull over to check for a flat and bend my front plastic mudflap back into place. All seems well, and we continue to the impound lot where Xenia is then slapped with a $42 parking ticket IN ADDITION to her $140 impound fee.

With FOL (f our lives?) echoing in our brains, we head out for a nice dinner and more than a few glasses of Skyy Melon + Cherry 7-Up, which raises our spirits in so many ways. Now cut to Saturday morning: I walk out the door to find my rear driver’s side tire completely and utterly deflated. With no time for repairs due to the Gopher vs. Illini game (fuck the FIBs!), we slug a couple Fat Tires, and head over to the newly built TCF Bank stadium. But OH HAI, apparently I need my old UMN id card to get in with my student ticket. After being shot down by scalpers for a regular non-student ticket, we end up spending $50 on a general ticket that will let me sit in any section anyhow. Copious amounts of coconut Malibu fix this issue, and we have a superb time at the game, followed by buffalo wings, chicken tenders, and the Fire Pit burger at Applebee’s which all makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

Later on in the afternoon I call around to local garages who all tell me they are closed for the day or the weekend period.com, so Xenia and I roll up our sleeves, bust out the jack, and change us a fucking flat tire. About five men pass on the street wanting to know if we need help, and we deny it every time. By the time the grease has soaked into my unbroken press-on French nails, and the little spare donut of a tire is fixed securely to my chassis, Xenia and I feel strangely empowered and independently feminine, and celebrate this with Chipotle, pajamas, and vodka.

Fast forward to 9 a.m. on Sunday. The Tires Plus near Xenia’s apartment doesn’t have any openings until 1 p.m. despite my pleas about this being an emergency and how I don’t even live in the city and need to be home by that evening. Luckily with some perseverence and a bit of Googling by Forth, I find a Tires Plus in my old neighborhood of Falcon Heights/Roseville that gladly take me and I’m on the road with a newly plugged tire by 11.

Around 11:07 a.m. my Dad says he’s proud that I know how to change a flat and at 11:47 I’m getting gas in Baldwin, WI and suddenly the pump decides not to stop and gas begins to guzzle over my poor, gimpy, hubcapless Lola, soaking my black studded Madden Girl flats, but these things do happen.

So, the moral of the story, kids? Drink. It can solve any problem–especially when you’re supposed to be having a stellar, stress-free girls’ weekend in the city you should have finished college in.

**Back.

A toe tapper and knee slapper.

I have a feeling that Forth would like to blog about something because he is pressuring me to publicize an encounter that I had with one of my students today, so……here ‘goes.

I retrieved my 2nd grader for a tutoring session this morning and while she had messy hair and was drowning in an oversized sweater, I noticed she was being particularly antsy as well. Though when she was struggling to turn the pages of “Poggy the Frog Eats Flies,” by licking her fingertips and pinching the page corners in vain, I was particularly surprised when she threw the book down on the table and exclaimed,

“Who makes these things anyway??”

That sentence was like a burst of heat to the ice of my customer-service hardened heart and in addition made me yearn for  a simpler time when maybe you didn’t graduate college and suddenly have no idea what you want to do or be or where you want to live and what you’re supposed to think about life. But at the end of the day my adorable, hilarious, little 2nd grader forgets her frustration and gets on the number 308 bus home and I know at least I’ve married the perfect man and might make some kids’ lives a little bit better, at least from 8:00-2:30 p.m. so, win…….and win.

**Back.

Swimming Pool.

I am about 40% happier in life right now. Why? Well because I don’t JUST serve coffee to douchebags anymore. Nope. I can proudly arch my thumb back towards my chest and say, “I teach little kids how to read.” It’s something worthwhile, fun, and makes me NOT want to jab a pencil through my eyeballs.

I now spend 20 hours a week as a tutor in the Americorps/Spark Literacy program through the Boys & Girls Clubs. Could any of you imagine me enjoying spending time with 7 & 8 year-olds? No. Neither could I….trust me. But after only a few meetings, the kids are excited to see me and eager to put forth their best effort during our half hour sessions. (Though probably just because I gave them fruit snacks and stickers.) It pays meagerly since it is technically a volunteer job with a “living stipend,” so I have to remain at my coffee shop job 2-3 times a week, but things have improved nonetheless.

Working with a largely Spanish-speaking underpriveliged public school population versus the uppity ignoramuses of the North Shore seems to balance my rage and I am now considerably more relaxed at the cafe (though Cup of Angst lives on!). Even better, the kids are adorable, and they make me laugh and smile so much that the inner core of my being is beginning to soften just a little bit. I mean, when you listen to a 2nd grader earnestly guess “swimming pool” while trying to read the word “easy” and interpret the word “lazy” to be “reindeer,” you can’t help but love them just a little bit…..especially when this little girl has a pet named Chopper the Wonder Dog. And when my 3rd grader who I’m certain is going to grow up to look just like Lucien from Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain does a ninja kick in the air and screams “YES!” every time he sees me, well…..that feels good.

But now that I dress like a real-adult human, have a real-adult job (sort of), and write lesson plans like a real-adult teacher, I really want a real-adult car instead of this.

But oh well. Whatever. Here’s our kitty being all, “Oh, when I’m NOT burying myself in Forth’s scrotum or sleeping in his underwear, I’m being a fatty with my chew toy.”

And then abstractly saying “OMG WTF.”:

**Back.

Hello Kitty.

On August 9th, Forth and I brought home a new addition to the family: a happy, bouncing, bundle…..of fur. A gift of sorts from Viana_17 courtesy of her farm-dwelling friend, Viana got attached to the cat and offered to help pay for some of its necessities if Forth and I would take him. Since we’d been jonesing for a cat for some time and Viana will easily be able to visit the kitty when she comes to visit from UW-Madison….we accepted.

So meet Atticus Mandarb:

First name courtesy of myself and our literary tendencies, middle name courtesy of Viana and the Wheel of Time book series. Anyway, while he’s cute and all, I would absolutely suggest owning a baby animal of some kind before getting all retarded over babies. Because let me tell you–this thing is close enough to a real newborn human to make me absolutely confident that Forth and I will be the last to spawn of all the weddings we’ve been to in the last four years.

Sure he’s cute and all but the first night we brought him home it was a waiting game to see if he was going to poop or pee and if he was going to do it in the correct place. We placed him in the litterbox frequently to make sure he knew where to do his biz. Of course after that as we were trying to go to sleep I rocked him and scratched his belly until I thought he was out cold but of course he woke up and felt the need to yowl or jump around on the bed or paw at our faces each hour on the hour from 11 p.m. till 8 in the morning. Forth and I took turns placing him in the litterbox in the middle of the night, or bringing him to his food and water dishes to make sure he had the proper sustenance. Sure cleaning the litterbox isn’t quite like changing a diaper, but it’s as close as I’d like to come for now.

This all goes without mentioning the disciplinary actions that need to be taken with what went from a shy, timid kitty to a jumping, scratching, obnoxiously hyper juvenile cat. I prefer lifting him by the scruff and yelling when we discover he’s been messing with the candles on the windowsill, peeing in the giant potted palm, clawing at the doorjambs, scratching up the bedspread, knocking over glasses of water, chewing up unattended pieces of paper, and et cetera. However, Forth will merely lift him by the scruff and explain calmly to the kitty that he has done something wrong. It’s very obvious when you take a look at our two personalities, but those sort of mixed signals would seriously mess a real child up.

At least the thing sleeps for 16 hours of the day, we can leave Atticus alone with a giant bowl of food and water for a weekend (plus RocLobster enjoys catsitting), and my vagina is still in tact, so I’d say that a baby kitty >  newborn–at least for the next ten years or so.

**Back.

Four Days….

Holy crap–a real blog, you say? I know, I know. It’s astounding. But I thought I’d take the last little bit of downtime I have before embarking upon a weekend of agendas and craziness and purge my thoughts on this whole marriage thing. Essentially, I’ve given up food for coffee and all I’ve wanted to do all week is crawl in a very dark, quiet space and sit, breathing evenly until I absolutely have to emerge.

All week I’ve been psyching myself up for the worst possible things that can happen, which includes barfing at the alter, spilling pasta sauce on my dress, getting a migraine during the ceremony, ripping my dress at the reception, not having enough seating or food for everyone, the DJ not showing up…..you name it. It’s not marrying Forth that I fear, of course–it’s 173 sets of eyes boring into my being for an entire day. Simply put, this wedding weekend will espouse some of my least favorite things: being the center of attention, entertaining a large number of people, making decisions, and gatherings of ten or more. When all of this comes together, I’m afraid I’m going to freak. My mind will self-destruct and I’ll get some sort of a contained anxiety attack. I broke out in hives for the first time last semester while teaching a lesson in my fiction workshop for an hour. Let’s hope this whole ceremony thing won’t be so rashy. Perhaps this will be the first wedding in which the maid of honor holds a puke bucket as well as the bride’s bouquet? If only my mother was on Prozac….I could snag some from her and both our lives would be considerably easier.

Love these family and friends as I might–I can only take so much….eventfulness. The people to talk to, places to be, a schedule to follow, things to take care of, appearances to keep—I don’t handle this stuff well. The way I see it, I’ll be sort of like a grizzly bear encountered in the woods by unsuspecting hikers: don’t make any sudden movements, speak in calm, quiet tones, and back away slowly before I rip your face off. Or, as Forth put it, I’m the crazy dude with the shotgun ready to blow the heads off a group of innocent bystanders. Something like that.

I’m extremely socially retarded in the first place—I can’t imagine how awkward and maladjusted I’ll be as a bride.

Another extremely narcissistic fear I have is bad eyeshadow. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m going for the darker eye thing and whenever I do that, it usually all smudges and bleeds into the bags under my eyes and I look like I’m all trashy and strung out—-and that’s when I’m NOT drinking. As I’ve mentioned before, since I’m not feeling very intelligent these days, I make it a point to try and look good. So now that the day when I have to look THE BEST EVER is upon us, the pressure is on. Today I gave into my vanity and went to Sephora for a $38 smoky eye kit with supposedly smudge and crease resistant colors, a very detailed how-to manual, and professional tools. Plus it’s all compact enough to stash in my purse for touch-ups. We’ll see what happens though. Perhaps the professionally done hair and big white dress will help?

Wish us luck, and Forth and Back will get back to you soon as this shit is over…..as a married couple with absolutely no plans for children within the next 5-10 years.

**Back.

I got my swim trunks, and my flippy floppies.

Echoing Forth’s sentiments, we are extremely pressed for time nowadays, and blogging is rare. Of course I know more of you like Cup of Angst anyway, so I don’t feel too bad about that. However, we DID have time to jet out to Los Angeles for my cousin’s wedding, which was pretty awesome. First of all…..WE SAW DOLPHINS. And it was amazing…well, sort of…from what we could see. Forth and I knew all about what they were doing thanks to this lovely documentary:

Naturally while we were in California, I was hoping to run into John Mayer, but unfortunately had no such luck. According to Twitter though, he was in Santa Monica during the last day we were in Cali. Speaking of celebrities that Twitter…..and I’ve Twit-stalked the likes of Nicole Richie, Taylor Swift, Joel Madden, Ashlee Simpson, Pete Wentz, Jessica Simpson, the new Disney Channel sluts, and etc….and I have to say, they seem more normal when you keep up with the inane drivel of their everyday lives. Sure you’ve got them jetting off to Paris and St. Lucia and meeting Mark Hoppus for lunch at the Ivy on Tuesday afternoon, but once you put that behind you….they’re just overprivileged, untalented kids like us.

Another novelty Forth and I stumbled upon while cruising the area outside our hotel was:

Yes. In-N-Out Burger: the White Castle of the West. I like to jump right into these regional gemstones when I come upon them, so Forth and I made sure we stopped in for lunch on Saturday afternoon. First of all, there was a freaking line out the door. Have you ever seen that happen at your local Mickey D’s? I didn’t think so. Second of all, the drive thru line looked to be about a 15 minute wait. It was so bad, there was even an In-N-Out bitch employee outside taking orders at people’s cars. Intense, eh? Certainly makes the name of the joint sound like bullshit–I’ve never waited so long for a burger. Anyways, once inside, we saw the goodness people had been talking about. First of all, the menu is based on the adage, “Keep it simple, stupid.” What can you order, you ask? A burger, a cheeseburger, or a “Double Double.” Of course there is also soda, fries, and a small shake selection, but that’s IT. No confusing clubs or grilled chicken or any of that useless crap. Nah, just gimme a damn burger. The interior is all retro palm tree and of course the workers (little effers who make about $2 more than I do at my miserable coffee job!…my relatives kept reminding me about the cost of living. WI vs. CA? Bitch, please.) have to wear ridiculous hats and ’50’s style outfits, but that’s the choice they make. It would appear the only nod to modernity they’ve adopted is the soda machine and notion of “combo meals.” Anyways, another shocker that Forth pointed out was the break in the Latino workforce inside the confines of In-N-Out. Everywhere you go in Los Angeles, there are Mexicans doing the jobs nobody else wants to. Mowing the lawn, pumping gas, waiting tables–but nope…not at In-N-Out. Perhaps it’s the CEO’s fondness for the “Leave It to Beaver” lifestyle, but all the kids working the grill were Aryan-looking Abercrombie models in-training. Tan lines and all.

As for the food….In-N-Out did not disappoint (that’s what she said?). The burger (we both ordered Double Double meals) was absolutely delicious. Forth nearly kept the wrapper in came in, which proclaimed that the beef was never frozen, they’d been using non-trans fat oil for years, etc. However, the fries left something to be desired. If one could pair an In-N-Out burger with Mickey D’s fries, it would be like fastfoodgasm in a bag. Oh, if only.

But of course the experience ended and we came home to 40-degree fog and drizzle and my insides turned black and died for awhile, but we got over it. Anyways, we apologize again for the lack of bloggage, but today was my last day of undergrad classes EVER, and next week the security blanket of being able to call myself a student will be yanked from beneath my tepid form, so needless to say…..I’m gonna have some time on my hands.

**Back.

P.S–Here is a bonus photo of Forth’s junk, detailing the damage done after he got raped by the Pacific. The sea was angry that day, my friends…and apparently wanted a piece of the family jewels.

A failburger with cheese.

Hi. My name is Back, and I am braindead.

I think the level of mental restlessness associated with senioritis has surpassed the mark of normalcy and spiraled into a fury that subsequently burnt out the motor of my mind. Thus, my head is full of cold metal and stagnant oil and snapped belts–heavy and useless. I Twitter in class, have only enough care to write blogs–not the fiction my degree denotes, and cannot wrap my waning consciousness around anything besides Rock of Love Bus and Reno 911. Getting the laundry done is now my definition of a major success.

I wander around pouring people coffee and sweeping floors and spend all the money I don’t make on stuff I don’t need and waste too much time on my hair because when there’s nothing going on inside the head, the outside might as well look good.

If the glass is half empty, it is probably because it was once full of Jameson and the other half is now swirling about my belly and veins, daring you to try and have a political debate over THIS blog entry. Bwahaha.

Stay tuned for next week’s commentary on sunshine, kitties, rainbows, and children jump roping in fields of daisies.

**Back.

Just DANCE Dance dance….

Last Saturday night was the heralded sophomore “Spring Fling” at Forth’s school. This year he was “lucky” enough to organize the event and I was “lucky” enough to volunteer to attend.

The previous evening, Forth brought home a flashlight/breathalyzer to use at the dance, should we suspect any of the underage kids to be a little crunk. He held it in front of my face for awhile as I was enjoying a whiskey and coke and playing Guitar Hero, wondering why on earth he needed a gigantic flashlight. It then flashed red and beeped and apparently I failed the high school drunk test. We didn’t need to use it at the dance, unfortunately, but it was extremely amusing nonetheless.

Unlike the Halloween dance, the majority of sophomore boys and girls danced in fun, jumpy groups with their short sparkly dresses and those’ stupid Kanye-flippy-windowshade sunglasses, instead of in these little intimate boy/girl combos. Of course, the girls are still stick-thin and unappreciative of their perfect, tiny bodies, bytheway. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if they don’t watch it, they’re not going to be able to wear those short skirts for long. At least some of us realize this. *Sniff.

However, there were two couples in particular that needed to be watched, which actually made me feel pretty sorry for the duos. Like, how hard up are they for alone time that they literally need to suck face in the middle of a group of adolescents with adults peering in on their every move?

After watching these two couples steal kisses, then proceed to full on make-out, Forth reluctantly walked over to one of them and tapped the girl on the shoulder, warning them that they had better not make him disrupt them again. I would have rather used more force, wit, and embarrassment in the situation but, of course I wasn’t in charge. Later on, I formulated a method of punishment for the the wayward harlequins and scheming lotharios: bringing in their parents and instating a rule that for every kiss, ass grab, slip of the tongue, pelvic grind, or whatever else the two kids performed with each other, they’d have to sit and watch their parents do the very same–I mean, how gross could that possibly be for a 16 year-old?

On the other hand, after experiencing this week’s entire Hip/Hop/Rap Top-50 list, I realized how cruel it is that all the DJ plays are these songs that do nothing but promote the fiery magnetism of junk-to-junk friction. It’s like three and a half hours of rhythmically Ebonicized taunts: “Grab the bottle of Bacardi and tap that ass, but don’t–because you shall receive detention.” Bwhahahaha.

In other news, if I ever do another dance again–which I doubt (not one that I have to wait for Forth to pick up after anyway)–I will start confiscating every feather boa and said pair of stupid slatted sunglasses that the kids bring in. It’s dumb. It’s tired. And something else too–why do they save all the “white music” for the end? It’s all rap and R&B until things wind down, and then it’s Zac Efron Lady GaGa and Taylor Swift. On the same note, why are all the slow songs at least 10 years old? The two slow songs I remember were Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” (1998) and the song that needs to die a slow, slow, agonizing, and possibly deformative death: Edwin Mcain’s “I’ll Be” (1997). These kids were what, four or five years old when those came out? There has to be at least 20 quality slow-dance songs since then to trump that crap.

Though Forth didn’t slip any Kings of Leon onto the night’s playlist for me, the DJ did bust out my beloved Flo Rida, and I wanted nothing but to jump into the mass of pubescence and rock along with them, but unfortunately that wouldn’t have been socially acceptable. Instead, I wallflowered as usual and continued to play the role of fascinating anomoly–even still I’m unsure as to when girls are going to quit being so preoccupied with Mr. Forth’s bethrothed. Honestly–just move along, ladies. Nothing to see here.

**Back.

Facebook for Dummies.

What the hell is up with all the extra-annoying Facebook crap lately? Seriously—first it was that stupid 25 Things note, then all the forward-esque notes about your spouse and being a mom and memories and blah blah. Now it’s that stupid tag-your-friend picture with all the little colorful characters. Oh, Brad is the “tiny, dangerous one.” How flipping cute. With all this ridiculousness in mind, I’ve decided to make a list of the top 10 most annoying Facebook statuses.

10.) The Countdown—Simple enough: “Back is **8 DAYS!!!!**”

Uh…8 days till what? Do I care? Probably not. Do I know you well enough to care? Probably less likely than caring. Do you need to find something else to do besides count your days? Probably. Am I guilty of posting such a status in the past? *Sniff. Yes.

9.) The Drunken Proclamation—“Back is totalllllly waaastedgh you guysshh omgz.”

Wow, look at you. You’re drinking. You’re so clever that you found a way to get your hands on some booze even though you’re NOT 21. You’re so cool. SO awesome. Have I done this one too? Probably. In not so many words.

8.) The Song Lyric—“Back is I won’t tell you that I love you kiss or hug you cuz I’m bluffin’ with my muffin.”

Shut up. We already know you have shitty taste in music thanks to your profile.

7.) The Home-From-Work Announcement—“Back is relaxing after a busy day at work.”

Yep, you and like, 275 million other Americans. Pour yourself a glass of pinot noir, turn on Dancing With the Stars, and go to bed at 9 p.m. Way to live the dream.

6.) The Cliché Catchphrase—“Back shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.”

How original. Before that were you Bond. James Bond? Or did you have a case of the Mondays? A motor-boatin’ sonofabitch? Do you love lamp? Have sweet nunchuck skills? Can you haz cheezburger? Enough. Please?

5.) The Verb—“Back is.”

This is just like a stupid attempt to seem philosophical when really you were changing your status and left it blank by accident. The end.

4.) The McLovin’—“Back is loving this slice of cheesecake.”

You’re loving Twilight. You’re loving Brad Pitt. You’re loving these new shoes. Okay, cool: then try and find a more creative way to say it, preferably one that doesn’t sound so sorostitute.

3.) The Weather—“Back is FREEZING and has had it with all this snow.”

Yes, we all are. Congratulations on choosing to comment on the single most clichéd topic of conversation ever. Get over it, or move to Florida.

2.) The ♥ —“Back ♥s her girls.”

No. Just…….no.

1.) The Mommy Update—“Back is sad that her Spawn has a cold “

Awesome—someone had sex with you, and you gave birth. I’m sure your kids are super-duper and it’s cute to hear about them once in awhile, but seriously. We truly don’t care if your little ejaculation slept 8 hours, is onto eating real cereal, or spit up all over their Target onesie. It’s like waving a virtual wallet-full of kiddie pictures in front of our faces ALL THE TIME.

Okay, so I dumped in an extra tablespoon or two of Bitch, but that’s what stress will do to a person.

Fin.

**Back.

I-94 W.

Last weekend, I returned to Minneapolis: the location of the optimistic start to my college career, the height of my days of independent living, and the cold, miserable drudgery that forced me home to greener pastures.

I’ve gotta tell you: I was stoked for the car ride. I used to make that 5.5 hour bitch at least once a month for two years and I had my playlist all picked out, my coffee mug at the ready, and visions of gas station doughnuts in my mind. Of course when I took off at 7:30 in the morning, my car encapsulated in a block of ice, I realized a few miles out of the city that my cruise control had broken, and my windshield wiper blades were too frozen to even bother sweeping away the slush, salt, and melted snow leftover from the previous night’s storm. Fan-tastic.

However, I did not let that deter me. I got my black-booted right foot situated in the most comfortable pedal-to-floor position,  gave myself a great impromptu concert featuring all of my current favorite songs, and did not mind pulling over to wipe the crust of salt off my windshield every half hour or so. Unfortunately, when I reached the longest stretch of the trip, between Eau Claire and St. Paul, I was forced into bored, random thoughts of which celebrities I would want to adopt me if I was a wayward orphan. Immediately Samuel L. Jackson popped into my head for a dad, but I couldn’t pick a mom that I wouldn’t either A.) Want to be best friends with or B.) Have wayward lesbionic thoughts about. Instead, I decided on Honor Blackman circa. 1965 in Goldfinger. Afro Samurai and Pussy Galore? Quite the pair.

Not much had changed along the highway in a year. There was considerably less construction and a huge new hotel outside of Eau Claire, but otherwise pretty static. Of course, the Twin City skylines were familiar scenes, and boy was it good to be back. I believe my relationship with Minneapolis is like that of a woman with a pair of insanely hot high heels. You put them on at the start of the night: you look great and feel like you can take on the world. But by the end, you have five blisters, your legs hurt, and you never want to wear them again. Yet the next time a special occasion rolls around, you dig them out of the closet with undaunted enthusiasm.

I love and hate that city.

What was different about this trip was the number 21. As in, age 21. What was also different was that one of my best lifelong friends transferred to the U after I left, and thus gave me an intense sense of comfort and familiarity in a place I used to simply not fit into. Together “Xenia” and I visited my old coffee shop where I met up with old friends, was recognized by old regulars (wtf, right?), had a mini-party in the old house where I used to live with one of my bridesmaids who still lives there, and drank up a storm in Dinkytown. As I sat in the Library and downed a Long Island with Xenia, I looked at all the UMN memorobilia on the walls and felt a twinge of regret about leaving.  I remember driving up to the city on moving day, 9/4/05 and looking at the skyline with all these romantic freshman thoughts in my head–I specifically said to myself, ” This place knows where you’re going to end up. Who you’re going to be, what you’re going to see, and who you’re going to meet.” Kind of lame I know, but it was a big life day, okay? And as Forth and I drove away from the city on 12/15/07 in our loaded vehicle caravan, I couldn’t even look at the skyline in the rearview mirror. I had conceded defeat and was retreating tail between legs.

However, when Sunday morning rolled around, city seen and fun had, I was eager to toss the empty whiskey bottle into the recycling, pack up, and head home. A ton of fun was had, and what’s the point in sticking around if visiting is so fucking awesome? As far as the Minne-apple goes, I enjoyed the dance, but simply have to give my feet a rest until the next time around.

**Back.