We're #1

  You know how it is when you come back from vacation or a long absence from home, and you drink the tap water at your house? And you realize it has a weird taste you never noticed before, and that the only reason you weren't tasting it before is because you were used to it? And that the more you think about it, the worst the taste is?

  That's basically how I feel about going back to OK.  Life there has a weird taste it took me a long time and a long absence to notice. Oh, and so does the tap water, mostly because it is actually contaminated.

 I know the type is too small to read. Suffice it to say, 

the size of the red dot is negatively correlated with the 

amount of time you have left to live after drinking the water.

5 POINTS IF YOU CAN SPOT MY TOWN.

  Regardless, leaving tomorrow morning.

43 days later

  I can't believe I haven't written in a month. Well, yes I can, because for a month I've been having crazy experiences, thinking "I should blog this", and then not doing it.

  Back in Nash now, after tearfully departing what turned out to be a kickass internship in which many things became clear: 1) history it is, 2) more degrees required, and 3) I don't have to be Someone; I just have to be Somewhere doing Something.

  I was really depressed to come back. Leaving my nice host family life, fun work, and friends wasn't easy, and now I'm just in an unpleasant in-between land, where every day is a repetitive cycle of applying for jobs and archiving the attic. Yes, using my new-found archival knowledge, I am now qualified to organize and weed piles of junk and papers and transform them into indexed and searchable collections. It's all stuff from college, so a lot of the process went like:

Oh I still have this? 

Yep. 

Does it still depress me? 

Not so much.

  I'm not saying I made an Excel spreadsheet for my clothes, but maybe it's in the works.

  My initial plan was to go home before Xmas, but a series of unfortunate events and deaths put me in a fairly catatonic state where I found myself unable to make decisions. I do want to go, sorta... but more I just don't want to be the Other Bad Kid. And once I do get there, there will only be more uncomfortable decisions to make.

  Nothing much kicking here. Last weekend Dad took us to what he believed would be an awesome Civil War encampment at a historic fort downtown (probably heavily influenced by his recent discovery of my favorite book Confederates in the Attic).  It wasn't quite what we expected: for one thing, all of the re-enactors were African-American. For reasons that are overwhelmingly obvious, Civil War reenacting is pretty much a white man's hobby. Secondly, they had been performing a funeral for a fictional dead drummer boy. And finally, the drummer boy was present, in the form of a large doll dressed in period attire, lying in a a handmade coffin.
 
  Oh, well. If they weren't doing this, they'd just be dynamiting anvils like they do at every other reenactment.