Last week, when I was chatting with E and F about life, they made a confession of tragic proportions. Apparently, back in February, they sent me a birthday present by way of USPS. Unfortunately, two months passed, my birthday came and went, and no package arrived. I checked with the friendly Scottish man who trades in parcels at my apartment complex, but he had no trace of it either.
En route to moving to Scotland, I spent a couple weeks at my parents’ house. Most of what I remember from that trip was a very alarming meltdown my last night in town (I couldn’t fit everything into my suitcases). The rest of my visit was pretty uneventful. I grew up in a town where you have to drive everywhere, but I essentially haven’t driven a car in in the past five years. When my parents replaced their automatic with a stick shift, I defaulted back to my fifteen-year-old self, waiting for an adult to ferry me about town.
So yeah, I lied. What can I say? I’m very busy and important. The once a week thing was super unrealistic. The only way I could actually accomplish that is to relinquish my paltry remaining social life. Not only am I unwilling to do that, it would be counterproductive as I’d have nothing left to blog about.
Yesterday, the pope put in his two weeks notice. Despite my uncharacteristically Baptist love of Lent, I am not Catholic, have never been Catholic, and do not plan to become Catholic anytime soon. But pope-deaths (or in this case, resignations), will always have a special place in my heart. Pope-deaths will forever remind me of the first time I got drunk.
Most of my friends are married. Their lives seem very foreign to me. Here is my interpretation of an actual conversation that transpired in one such household earlier this week: