I’m going to talk myself out of it. I feel it in my bones.
I’m a big schemer, you see. I like ideas and plans more than I like most things. But who am I to have these elaborate dreams? Who am I to think I am worthy of them, even if they are currently just as grand as becoming a barista at the Starbucks on CityWalk?
(Starbucks baristas are heroes, let me be perfectly clear.)
I am not slow and methodical in things. I start to itch beneath my skin and either I hide under the bed or I panic and DO SOMETHING. I am either going to stay under my bed here in Atlanta like the sad catfish I am or the panic is going to overwhelm me and I am going to drive to Orlando without a Good Plan.
And I don’t know! Is that how single weirdos in their 30’s in the midst of a giant personal crisis move? Do you just toss your cat into the back of your Nissan Altima, make sure you have enough toll money, and go? Figure it out once you’re there? Improv, right! I’ve taken improv classes! I can handle it!
(I don’t know if I can handle it.)
What I know is that I cry nearly every day. I feel not just like a disappointment to Atlanta and to my people here, but sometimes like a traitor. Like I have done SO BADLY that I have actively betrayed the people I love most. And, yeah, I know, I’m not actually that big a deal, but it is still a really hard, awful thought to leech out of my heart.
So, again, I return to: making strangers Frappucinos and wishing them well before they go off to ride rollercoasters?
I can do that, I think.
But is it an escape or a penance?
Do I ever forgive myself?
Back to Good Omens, always: I wanted to be an Aziraphale so badly, but I cannot get Crowley’s text out of my head.
“Unforgivable, that’s what I am.”
I feel unforgivable. And again again again, I know you don’t think that. But I am sort of sick, with this gross thing that lives in my head and tells me lies. So, it’s enough that I think I am unforgivable, that I will ruin everything I touch.
I cannot bear to touch Atlanta anymore and maybe Orlando’s too sunny for me to tarnish.
Is it an escape or a penance?
I don’t know.
I just know I miss you already.