Home is Where the Heart Was

Last Tuesday night I wanted to write a really poetic post. It would have involved something about taking the metro to national airport, wandering around alone, paying a Higher-Than-Manhattan price for an organic egg salad sandwich, checking my cell phone for text messages. It would have had some sort of metaphorical theme wherein which I tied together the stark beauty of the airport with the stark beauty of the city I once called home, but as each day passes it seems to slip further and further from that definition. It would have talked about how difficult this year's holidays were, how hard it is for me to let go (referencing a text I received over a year and a half ago), how I feel like nothing is left for me south of the Mason Dixon Line, and probably would have quoted Couting Crows' Long December because it was a long December and Counting Crows always make me think of airplanes.

The problem with this grand plan is that it never came to fruition. See, I bought a book and JUST WHEN YOU THINK YOU CAN WRITE SOMETHING AWESOME, someone else does it for you, and the next thing you know you're reading someone else's words and fogetting your own.

I got really distracted on the plane and my poetic thoughts were wildly interrupted by the multiple times I had to shove my head into my book to quiet the laughs I made out loud on a plane full of strangers. You see, Chuck Klosterman might very well be my hero. He makes me want to write lists and be wildly witty pretty much all the time, and every once in a while he comes out with that zinger that is what the kids today are calling "deep" and some might consider "meaningful," so there in my window seat (where I sat so I could see Manhattan when we landed, not Rosslyn when we took off), with my overhead light on and we flew further further from my old home I read:

"In New York, people are unhappy on purpose, beacause unhappiness makes them seem more complex; in Washington DC it just sort of works out that way."