2007-02-02 - 11:01 p.m.
For the first time in Diaryland history, I have a lot of stories and ideas to talk about. Like, at least a week's worth of stuff. But I'm not writing about it--why?
Well. First of all, I'm moving to Seattle in two days and this? Is a pretty big thing to undertake since 1) I don't have a car and 2) my parents are being jerkfaces and forcing me to get everything of mine out of the house as soon as possible. Which makes sense, because they probably need the whole 15 square feet in the basement that my things take up so that they can buy another piece of exercise equipment that no one will use.
So there's the whole business of packing things up and shipping them, which requires me calling Amtrak and the United States Postal Service approximately 4 times a day. "I'm sorry but on your website, it says that you are not allowed to use plastic containers to ship things--can you clarify what you mean by 'plastic'? Is there a shipping surcharge if you do not tape the box enough?"
One of the most exciting things about this whole thing (besides the fact that I will FINALLY be living in Seattle after pining for it for years and years and hence running away from two potentially healthy relationships in my cards. yes, I am becoming that guy) is that I'll be taking a train all the way out west as my means of moving. My friend Nicole--Miss Throw-Red-Triangles-In-The-Air-To-Emphasize-My-Point--took a train cross-country a summer or two ago from Virginia to San Fransisco and liked it quite a bit. I'm going to feel a bit like Grover Cleveland or something, which is a nice change of pace from being Meany McOlderBrother. I might just pace the aisles, asking if anyone else is feeling the vapors, and offering my assistance in shoveling coal into the gigantic steam engine that's powering our iron horse.
My dad, who spent his years during the 1970's being obsessed with the west and trains (yes, he had one of those Lionel model train town sets that took up half of the basement where he'd direct trains all among foam trees, balsa post offices, and matchstick track in his bachelor years) got visibly excited at dinner when I told him I locomotiving it out west. He got this crazy look in his eyes that means he's excited about something and was like, "Is it the northern route?!? I hear the northern route is JUST. BEAUTIFUL." You should know that my dad doesn't get excited about anything unless it revolves around beer or LEGO robots. So my dad will be living vicariously through his recently unpleasant (but only because my parents are driving me, with my brother in the passenger seat, swiftly swiftly insane) gay son who happens to be knitting a sweater while he slides through Montana mountain passes, listening to Justin Timberlake and The Pernice Brothers.
Also, does anyone else--and by "does anyone else" I definitely mean "don't we all"--worry about becoming a sad adult? I want so badly to help my parents not become the awkward, passive-aggressive, unhappy people they seem to be to me but what can we really do about things? Is this the natural trajectory of all lives? Is there any way to escape that kind of momentum? It seems to happen to so many people that I wonder what we're all doing so wrong for so long. I'm hoping that doing things like moving to strange cities is a step in the right direction. I hear so many older people tell me, "Peace Corps!? I always wanted to do that!" or "Move away from home?! I always wanted to do that!" that I'd like to think that I'm avoiding many of the pitfalls that entrap the great number of our people.
And now this is great because I didn't even write what I wanted to write.
