The sway of the bus made me sleepy. The heat felt like a drug. By the time I woke up, all I saw were fields of grass outside the windows. I woke up to the sound of a girl shouting to the bus driver that she found a straggler. My mind was foggy. I stared at the girl’s brown hair, skinny neck, and bright orange bus patrol belt. All I wanted to do was cry. Why didn’t anyone wake me up! We usually sat two to a seat, and I’m pretty sure I had the seat closest to the aisle. The person on the inside had to squeeze by me to get out. That’s messed up, I thought. I swallowed my tears and followed the bus patrol to the front seat. The bus driver told me it was going to be okay, that she’d take me home. It felt like a long drive.
I don’t know how we reached my house, but we did. I walked up to the front door and peered into the floor-to-ceiling windows. This is how I remember it. With my forehead touching the window, I cupped my hands around my face to look through the glass. My sisters were watching after school programs on TV. That’s when the tears started falling, and I started sobbing. Did they even know I was gone? I was young, and I felt abandoned. What happened after that, I really don’t know. I assume my mother opened the front door to let me in and thank the bus driver for making the extra trip back.
I don’t remember falling asleep. You never really do. You just know that it happened when you wake up. When you’re not supposed to fall asleep, it’d be nice to know someone cares enough to wake you.
Ever since I realized my blog URL had a typo in it, I’ve felt rather detached to it. Sad. (The word “fildeo” was supposed to be “filedo” — my alter ego. It’s the way T-9 text prediction spells out my name, “eileen,” on that there cellular phone. I should know. I text myself a lot. Filedo doesn’t mean anything. Fildeo, though, is apparently some Spanish sports term. How ironically hyperbolically subversively stupid.) You can’t change the URL. It’s permanent. I’ve considered moving my entire blog, but I don’t know how I feel about that yet. And I’m too lazy right now. I’ve got problems. It’s like…I don’t know who I am anymore.
Anyway, I’m still going to give it a try. I just need some space right now. It’s not you. It’s me. I have a crazy preoccupation with perfection, a neurosis for neatness. If my infatuation isn’t satisfied, I get antsy and the world turns gray. I sleep a lot and have little appetite. I might get the urge to cry. I may want to be alone.
Just kidding. But if you ever really do feel that way, you should seek help. There is nothing wrong with seeking help. We don’t like to ask for help. Today at Dunkin Donuts, a guy came in to ask for money so that he and his wife could pay rent. We don’t trust people who ask for help anymore. When someone asks for help, we gauge the cost. When I ask for help, I wish you’d just do it. But I don’t ask b/c I don’t want you to gauge the cost and find that it’s not worth it. I don’t need help. Not really, anyway. Or maybe I need a lot of help. Immanuel.
Today was one of those days where I thought — it’s crazy I am where I am. Just crazy. Twenty-five years have culminated to today. The air was crisp, my jacket was warm, my bag was heavy, the streets were busy, my coffee spilled, my hair was tangled. I hung out with my best friend, met two new people, hummed Jingle Bell Rock in the car, played with my broken windshield wiper, avoided the cats at my professor’s house party, ate black beans for two different meals (and you know what happens after that). Twenty-five years and this is the condition of my mindsoulbody.
This post-Thanksgiving post turned into a rant. I shouldn’t have even pointed out the typo in my URL. I feel funny. Is this real life?
Good night, world!