Packing

Packing...Packing, packing. Go to the next room, pick up semi-vintage collector's edition Fat Elvis Bobblehead, wipe the dust off his face and drop it in the box. Take it back out, put it in another box. Go get soda, take a chug. Go back, sit on floor cradling bobblehead Elvis overcome with odd memories that lead to to others. Realize Fat Elvis is harboring a secret power to derail your packing. Lob semi-vintage piece of junk towards trash pile that has overtaken trash can. Guilt attacks every time you see his self assured smirk as the ass-end goes over the fore-end while he plummets to his fate. He lands facing you, a banana peel wrapped like a canary turban round his shiny head. Guilt turns to anger, and you slam Elvis' head down in the trash can, bundle the trash with a neat red bow, and frog march it down to the dumpster.

Two hours later, convinced the bobblehead is your spirit guide, you are hip deep in the dumpster sifting through old chinese food, dirty kleenexes and a Bob Dylan Record collection. Alas, a banana peel is folded back to reveal the not-so-shiny bobblehead. You wipe it off, take it back upstairs, and drop it in the box. Only, it doesn't look right.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Guilt

Have you ever tried to tell 45 bleary eyed, non-english speaking janitors that you are leaving to find your path on some sort of existential journey and that working for a janitorial contract, no matter the $, is crap for a wandering soul like yourself? Oh yeah, and you're not allowed to hurt their feelings because they're all nice and remind you in many ways of your extended family. Hand gestures are allowed.

Bright side: My arch work-nemesis boycotted my party by writing I'M NOT COMING! in big fat letters to match his big fat head. Seriously, the thing is enormous. I was relieved. Convention would have required i give meathead a nice tap-tap-pat hug should he have profferred and I would have got his man-slime on me. Ew.

Down Side: SkSn tried to make me cry all over the three dozen lovely pink and yellow roses the whole place saw fit to buy me by listing everything that I was leaving and checking for tears. Not that he did it for sport or with malicious intent, but some people only measure your grief by the level of your hystrionics. People in ancient Rome used to hire paid mourners to follow relatives funeral processions just to up their own wailing and moaning to prove they were really, REALLY sad. But I descend directly from stiff upper lip stock from the heart England, Germany and everywhere else they bury/deny/avoid emotion. I would have been a crap paid mourner.

But, i got a party. It was my first party in years. And, they brought me food and said nice things about me and gave me an engraved timepiece to count down they seconds before I have to get another job.

I have a secret to tell you...

I am not watching the superbowl. I will get hell for it tomorrow, but who the hell really cares about a bunch of men in tights throw things and hitting each other?