[A concise summary for the emo immune: The author worries about stuff. Has anxiety attack. Gets better. Misses party. Is lame. Doesn't care. The End.]
This return to Washington has been a serious nail-biter for me. I'm not sure people have entirely picked up on that, as I tend to fake a placid calm pretty well. But there were a myriad of tiny things that could have shattered my plans. Car trouble, loan trouble, illness... you name it.
Even after arriving in B'ham, I've been dead sure, just utterly convinced, that something horrible was going to happen. My stress level's been spiraling out of control. The whole thing sorta climbed to a crescendo this Tuesday last. Tuesday was a really dark day for me. My general dread had ramped up to Total Freakout proportions and I thought: Yep, this was IT. Something horrible was destined to happen today, maybe right here, maybe right this bleeding minute, and it was all going to fall to pieces around my soft and only head...
But nothing happened. Then (as Douglas Adams would say) nothing continued to happen. The wrath-of-god asteroids whizzed quietly overhead. I chipped at my mountain of homework. I drove out to Lynden to watch the wind rip rainclouds across Mount Baker. I went downtown and kicked around the stacks at Michael's Books. Fell beasts did not leap out from the darkened corners. Later I went out to Anthony’s-on-the-Bay with my pal Classic Mike. Drank a microbrew. Ate a salad. Talked about sailing. The zombie legion doggedly refused to rise.
Somewhere between then and now it has occured to me that HOLY CRAP I’M IN BELLINGHAM. A locale recently voted #1 Raddest Place in the Solar System by a recent nationwide survey of RoguePoets. I actually made a plan that worked out okay? Straight up, no whammies, fine-just-fine? It would seem so. A little off the rails and behind schedule maybe, but otherwise I'm motherfucking lucky in life.
So I guess I’m back down to threat level yellow. Breathing easier now.
What sucks is: I'd been hoping all along that I'd have my shit together before Columbus Day. That I'd have a side job & a decent studio by now. That I could make that leisurely 4-hour drive down to Portland and get a chance to hook up with Jack again, and Jeff and Keith, and not to mention Christen and Laurel and their entire oddball crew, all these interesting folks that I'd heard so much about. Obviously, that didn't happen. (No, you weren't that drunk. You didn't miss me. I wasn't there.)
In truth I didn't even realize Columbus Day had come and gone 'til the aftermath w/us came rolling in. On the aforementioned Panic Attack Tuesday. So thanks for kickin' me while I was down. Jerks.