kibashed

I'm finally getting my shit together on my French paperwork. All the scary bureaucratic words panicked me, so I left the pile on the counter to be glared at in moments of idleness. This is how I deal with things I am afraid of. But time is catching up with me - I'm leaving the outer reaches of Seatthell in less than two weeks, leaving for France in something like five. So what was once a process to be reviled is now a task completed, as long as I can make it to the post tomorrow without lapsing into some kind of unexplained panic attack.

I'm not afraid now, per se, but I feel some weird pre-fear. All I've been thinking about lately is getting back to Montana, seeing my friends again, enjoying life rather than hiding from it in my suburban fortress. I remember getting up on Saturday, the day to go to Vancouver and feeling a longing to do nothing of the kind. It wasn't foreboding or anything like that (though it rightly should have been), it was more of a sad reluctance. It could be the hypnotic tale-weaving of George R. R. Martin - how I broke my eyes from the hundred and fifty pages remaining to me in A Clash of Kings, I can't say - but something tells me it is how I have adapted. Though I felt no warmth or welcome in Seattle, my dread of Federal Way (my very own suburb!) is a different beast. The walls are paper-thin, and so the unbidden screams of latchkey brats travel easily as the wind. Ravens are everywhere, as are the stripmalls. The people are morons and I'm living in one of those stupid named neighborhoods. So as much as I hate the house, I don't want to leave it - the outside disgusts me and Seattle frustrates me, so where can I go but further and further into my own head?

The dread is heightened by the return of my benefactress, full of the same fruitful complaints. Glancing back up at the previous paragraph, it seems a wonder we do not relate more intimately. So I am back in my familiar escape plan, the tacky suburban library where everyone talks on their cellphone and the modern fiction section is sparse-if-not-embarassing.

But I'm leaving soon. She's leaving on Friday. My paperwork is leaving on the morrow. I need to go into the city and see one of these fancy independent films the kids are all talking about. I want to chase a bottle of wine with pilfered prescriptions or smoke a joint, but these pleasures seem empty all alone. Plus I like totally don't have any weed.