So, I went off to Crookville with my big, blue duffel bag (the only thing I took to Colombia) and miscellaneous other things to put under Ms. Sands' bed in Crookway Heights; we both decided it'd be a good thing, to ensure I don't just waste away in TX and the South for the rest of my ever-dwindling years. I said I'd definitely come back by end of July -- if only to gather the rest of my belongings.
Enter a little man we'll call Charley Fatz. He'd just been stumbling around, having entertained another School Friend for the evening, when he stopped by and interrupted our watching of TBS, quietly.
"You're going back to TEXAS?!" He's from San Antonio (Texas).
"Just for a bit! I'm going to tool around the South for a bit, work on my writing, you know ... explore!" I felt a flush come over my face.
"You're never coming back."
Despite the slurring of his words, it shocked the s.h.!.t. out of me.
"Shut up, of course I'm coming back. Margs always goes home! For months!" I tried to defend myself, and pointed at her as a ripe example.
"Yeah, but, she's always coming back. You're not coming back."
This morning, he said, "You got upset by me, a drunk man!? Come onnnnnn."
Of course I did. Man, oh, man -- I took it so hard. He even threw in other examples of friends (Texans) he knew who'd called it quits and went home and got married; ha, one wishes. I made Ms. Sands laugh yesterday, telling her of a date I went on the night before where the friend said:
"I don't mean to be ... forward. But. You don't seem to be much into worrying about guys. What's wrong?"
"Ummm, what? I don't know. Wait, what?" I picked up my butter knife and started sawing the edge of my table ... slowly, slickly.
"I just mean, are you just not that into guys? All my girl friends ... that's all ... well, it's all they talk about."
Internal: Oh, Lord.
"Are you into girls?" he asked, with a furrowed, intense brow.
"No. Umm, I need to go."
So, back to Mr. Fatz, it's all thrown me for a clichéd loop. He views it as a weakness, my going home; obviously I have those thoughts and I rationalize them away by knowing (thinking) it'll all do me some good to be home with Brother and Mama G (and the Rat Child) for a bit ... and it'll be cheaper.
I just want to take an adventure. (Run away?)
Internal monologue, over. I'll leave with a preview I saw the other day that shocked some good sense into me, movie-wise.
Orphan trailer...it seems like a more awesome "The Good Son":
"There's something wrong with Esther."