“But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!” -Robert Burns, To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough
I was wrong about 2008, by the way. I ran away to Boston with the aforementioned ex-non-boyfriend in February. Something peaked by Valentine’s Day, and by St. Patrick’s Day weekend I was coming down…HARD!
I flew to Chicago with high hopes of a fanciful, impractical weekend away, only to have them squashed via text message as soon as I took a seat on the plane.
Friday after work, I ran home, grabbed a suitcase, literally tossed in an armful of whatever clothes were nearby, grabbed my guitar, and sprinted out the door. I barely made it to the airport in enough time to check in and board. As the flight attendants prepared for takeoff, I readied myself. Only when I flipped open my mobile phone to power off, I was greeted by three text messages, which was actually one long one divided because of text limitations. It read:
“Dear, Sweet, Beautiful, I don’t know quite how to say this, but I started seeing someone in the last few weeks. I still care about you, and you can still crash at my pad, but I will not be able to stay with you. I hope we can still hang out and party. xoxoxo”
This is the part in the “movie” where my face droops and silently tears begin to stream down flushed cheeks from my glistening eyes (good, huh?). In retrospect, I feel badly for the poor man who got the haphazard seat next to me, as I hastily decided that the best method to respond to this change in plans was to mainline whiskey, to find another friend at whose pad I could crash, and to catch the next flight back to New York (in that order).
Several hours and countless ounces of Jack Daniel’s later, I crashed with a girl friend near my old squat in Lincoln Park. Unfortunately, it turned out that I was allergic to her dog, or rather, that is what I deduced from the hives that broke out on my arms and chest. I proceeded to Schubas, where he was performing (I should know better than to get involved with musicians by now), to pick up the key as I was still unable to book an earlier flight back to New York. With my luggage and guitar in tow, I waited miserably for the first set to end. Meanwhile, I had a beer at the bar until reinforcements arrived, when I decided I needed to switch back to the hard stuff. Continue reading