How the hell do you say goodbye to one person, let alone everyone and their pet rock? I'm not even looking at this from the emotional perspective of, "Woe is me! I shall miss you friends and family, from the deepest corners of my heart to the frayed ends of my hair!" - kinda thing. What I'm talking about is the straight up practical side of the issue.
I guess I could simply write a facebook status, paste a post-it note on the fridge, and leave some voicemails to those aren't close by/don't have facebook. That could cover my bases. I guess.
But fuck that shit. I want to leave on a good note, replete with warm-and-fuzzies, tight hugs and stupid smiles, back pats and "I'll see ya later, man (or kid, son, boy, cracker, schmuck)." I want to Costanza my exit from the states: leave on a high note. (I'm praying to his noodly appendage that that Seinfeld reference wasn't too far out there. People have watched Seinfeld, right? I'm pretty sure. I hope so. Maybe? That wasn't even that well known of an episode, shit....)
I think that I did it right, though. I did it justice. This past week has been a sprint of making sure all of the t's have been crossed and all of the i's have been dotted and all my fucking shit and paraphernalia was in order. But, betwixt the mad dashes to Costco before it closes to get my contacts and visits to the local pharmacy to get enough drogas for my time in Japan, I caught my breath and sat down with those that matter. "You don't have time; you make time," kept going through my head this week. And it's true. You make time.
Monday
After getting back from a weekend of drinking in the sun in Montauk, I threw on my fancy schmancy, "make me look good" clothes and drove down to the Harvest on Hudson to meetup with my girls from the poolhouse over the summer.
PAUSE::
For those I haven't already regaled (read: bothered) with stories about my summer job, I was a poolboy/cabana boy/"recreational facilities manager." I cooked, cleaned, organized, and assisted with other tasks on the property of my employer, specifically his poolhouse. Over the course of the summer, I became friendly with some of the regulars there, namely my employer's daughter and her friends. They kept me company and joked around, helping the summer breeze by.
RESUME::
I arrived there and sat down, waiting for the others to arrive. Soon after, C walks through the entrance and we went to the bar to sit. Fast forward half an hour and D and L arrive, fashionably late because they couldn't figure out how to get there. It's a 25 minute drive, 20 if you speed, 15 if you don't care about your life. But I digress, they came, I was happy, and everything was right in the world (except Rob didn't show up. Fuck you, Rob. I'm LIVID as shit. Not really, but it did put a damper on the night.) After some chitchat we sat down at our table and got down to serious business. We were gulping down the "water" left and right, laughing, cracking jokes, tossing expletives into the air like confetti, and just having a grand ol' time. And oh lord. OH LORD. LAWD! They drank me under the table. By the time I was starting to feel the water hard they were just sitting back all casual.
Experience. That's what they had on me.
After enjoying dinner and dessert, we said our goodbyes, hugged it out, and I went back home, ready to fall into the folds my ice blue comforter. Sleep came quickly, especially when assisted by the comfortable white noise of a fan.
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