12 days, uncountable calories, one coat, two gloves, a zillion happy reunions, several fuck-ups, revelations, mystical experiences, tears, smiles, and hugs later, and I am back in LA.
And I'm glad for it.
LA is home now, in a weird "Hi, I reside in Hell." sort of way.
It was funny to realize that I wanted to be here, but I do. I may not always like it, but perhaps that's just the way life is supposed to be. We're not meant to be entirely happy or feel entirely good all the time.
Leaving Rock Island was easy, except for saying good-bye to my family. Saying good-bye to friends in Chicago was easy, but leaving the city was hard. I love Chicago, I love the CTA, I love easy access to everyone always, and I love walking. Even when it's -7 and I'm stuck in the frigid cold lost in Wrigleyville.
I've not felt like myself at all, though, since I've been back. I had a strange Saturday, and everything feels like a lucid dream, not like reality. Which is a shame because it's a reality I'm ready to embrace.
Oh well. I'm going to blame air travel. While still drunk. Or hungover maybe. Thanks mom, for that January 1st flight. I pulled an all-nighter on New Year's Eve into New Year's Day, jumped in a cab, hopped on a plane, attempted and failed to sleep sitting next to a fat person, and then attempted and failed to sleep sitting next to an interesting piano teacher from San Francisco. Then I failed to sleep when I got home because I was not sure how to feel. And in all this, I forgot to eat at all.
Oh me.
Happy New Year!
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