The end of this somewhat retarded era.

As in, the last 11 months of my life have been missing a chromosome. Now is the part where I freak out because the decisions I've made are sort of coming true. Like being pregnant, but then just sort of thinking you've gotten fatter and aren't with-child, and then one day a fucking baby pops out of your vag and oops! you have to deal with it. And feed it and make sure it's breathing and stuff.

Last night I saw Tony Sims in gmail, so I just sent him a chat that said, Tony Fucking Sims! Come home.

Then he wrote that Georgia was home, and asked how I was and sent me a freshly picked song from his song garden. It's pretty amazing; a Beatles-esque, somewhat "Day in the Life" somber song with the phrase, "I'm jealous of your light." I just listened to it. Good stuff.

I wasn't expecting today to be my last day at Capella, but my boss talked to me about the mess of a day that was yesterday, and she put that offer on the table. I thought it was for Capella reasons only, as in, you crazy fool, get out of here now--but it really wasn't. She could just tell my brain wasn't there. Not in the sense that I'd given up on the job (I mean, not anymore than I had been hiding from the beginning) but in the sense that I wasn't myself. And I wasn't. My brain is doing that thing where I feel like it's trying to float out of my head--like it's hitting up against the sides like a tightly filled balloon that just wants to get out of this small space--and I need to not be at Capella next week, once classes start. I really, really need the money. But today the impulse to leave was too strong. First of all, I had a huge headache and the thought of not sitting in that desk chair seemed pretty sweet. Also, being in that cube, in that building, really plays up on my serious claustrophobia, and I probably should be avoiding that claustrophobic feeling, since my "life-decisions" of going back to school are slowly closing in on me. Does this make any sense? I cut myself free just a bit early at the cost of 2 and 1/2 days of work. I'm moving to Rochester, to the farm, next week. We ended, unexpectedly, on really good terms, and I'm not being sarcastic.

And so, the summer sort of begins. Soon it will be July, the month of fat women, as I like to think of it; the time of year where all you can imagine are either barefoot children with red popsicle faces or extremely overweight women in tube tops wiping sweat from their brows under their short, curly and damp hair. Their shorts are too short, they always miss an awkward spot on their bodies with the suntan lotion, and they're always reading The Globe (and it was a sought purchase, not an impulse.) They're always afraid to lift up their arms, and they're wearing flip flops, and their toes aren't ever painted so their toenails are light yellow, and they really, really like to sit in the sun. On a bus bench, on a blanket at the beach with a mass market paperback, or in their front yard on a cheap plastic lawn chair, like the fully-clothed sunbathing Mexicans in this neighborhood do around 40th Street.

So is summer, or late spring, or whatever is here when I go outside and sneeze and squint my eyes. Today I had to take the 5E home--my last bus ride--because I was able to leave work early, since my last meeting was a brief meeting with HR, and I gave them my building security badge. I knew it had to be the 5 on my last day. Even though I'll miss the 133 and the lady with the weird wart on her face and the lady with the ridiculously fat face who wears an anklet, short skirts, and long shirts (so she appears without-pants), it had to be the stupid adventure bus, the 5.

I got to the bus stop on 8th two seconds after the bus came, and I tried to wave it down to no avail. So I had at least 15 minutes of waiting for the next 5. I sat on the bus bench, which I rarely get to do, as it is often cold and my ass freezes. There is the skinniest black man I've ever seen on this bench. He has luggage with him--a suitcase and a carry on bag, and he reeks, he is saturated, with the stench of hard liquor. Also, he is wearing a sweat suit and there is an huge and oddly shaped skin tag on his face, right next to his mouth. Even more odd, the skin tag is white skin and doesn't match his dark complexion. From far away, it would just look like he had a giant morsel of uneaten food on his lip, but up close one wants to rip the unmatching skin from the rest of his face.

This man decides to make a phone call to tell someone that he has money, he has $100 dollars in his pocket. This is fine. Well, it would be fine if he didn't insist on screaming that he had the money as loud as possible. I got the money! I got the money! Let me talk to her! Let me talk to her! He screamed. This matter was even more complicated for two reasons. 1) I sat next to him before this display started happening, so people sort of thought I was with this guy. Like his case worker or something. All of 8th street looked over at us, as his voice boomed and echoed through the downtown buildings, and I just tried to look away as though I didn't notice this drunken fool next to me. 2) The woman he was commanding to talk to was named Jean. So he kept saying let me talk to Jean! Let me talk to Jean! And it was emotionally awkward, as I felt out of body already because it was my last bus ride and my last moments as someone who worked "downtown."

But, he took his cane and left after hanging up abuprtly, and decided not to wait for the bus, but waddle down the street with his cane while looking over his shoulder, paranoid. Then, I sat for longer while other busses went by. Then a woman came up to me and asked how long I'd been waiting, as she was waiting for a bus and didn't know when it would come. Then her bus came, and mine didn't. Then another woman came and sat next to me, a frail woman with gray shoulder-length hair and orange lipstick. She sounded exactly like my old forensics directory Sue, minus Sue's often held Diet Pepsi and pack of Kools, so I took a liking to her. Why not be friendly, when I know I'll never be there again, and when the sun is out? What else to do on a bus bench at quarter to four.

She sat down and started talking about her husband and his green thumb, then told me that she kills plants just by looking at them, and did I kill plants, too? I told her, Yes, I often did kill plants. She liked this. She talked about spring, putting her winter clothes away, washing her summer things, waiting for the sun to come out with her husband, who was waiting for the sunb to come out too. Her lipstick was sticky and coagulating on her lips. Then she started talking to other men who were reading Vince Flynn about her husband, who loves Vince Flynn. The thing is that I couldn't really decipher her lazy of crazy. I figured she was like 5% more crazy than me, considering I've felt like 30% more crazy this week than I normally do.

Then her bus came, and mine didn't so I wished her to enjoy the weather. Then, my bus came, and there were a lot of fat women with mustaches riding and also a man who just looked out the window and said bang, bang, bang the whole ride home.