Today a friend of my father, whose film version could quite easily be portrayed by Fred Willard, told me that once a family is in the restaurant business, there's no way to leave it. Well, what he actually said was "There's ketchup in your blood, and there's no way to get it out!" Which I found a little disturbing and a lot funny, and so tried not to catch my dad's eye, because I knew that we'd both crack up. But then the guy said "You can try as hard as you want, but you just can't quit." And then I whispered something to my dad like "Man, that ketchup-heroin is a bitch to kick," and we both started giggling, and even though it wasn't all that funny, we just couldn't stop, and I had to run to the restroom to escape.
In 24 hours EXACTLY, I will be home in Anchorage. I will sleep on my terrifically uncomfortable bed, and my stinky dog will come snuffle on my feet, and maybejustmaybe there will be snow... We will light candles for the last three nights of Hanukkah, and on Friday we will sing folk songs and eat brownies. I will see my friends I haven't seen in four months, and we will eat stomach-annihilating tuna melts at Leroy's. Soon enough I will start missing my Evergreen friends, and I'm sure there will be stupid Alaskan drama, because there always is. Hopefully no one will kill themselves this time, though. That wasn't fun. It's never fun.
On New Year's I will hold a sparkler and think about kissing someone, and probably fall asleep curled around a best friend or two. And then it will be time to come home to the place I've lived for a year and a half... It seems funny to call Olympia home, but I suppose it really is now.
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Oh, the drama. Doesn't it just kill that being-home joy? Doesn't it make that displacement we collegiates are so privleged to receive all the more distasteful? I was about to write that I can't stand going home, but that's not true. Per se.
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