Dear Fall Holiday Lovers,
After about the second week of Rachel Ray and Days of Our Lives (like sands through the hourglass...), one starts to go crazy. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald's masterful prose could not get me out of the doldrums unto depression.
And staying at home because 'I have nothing better to do' (according to Mama) is wearing thin my limited patience. There's a reason why I fled Houston, and I'm sadly reliving the experience of 85 degree nights in a steaming bedroom on an insanely lumpy bed with the neighbor's dog barking outside the window. I think they keep prisons cooler than my parents' house. And they feed you better too.
I might have to return to Dallas soon, and wait out purgatory there. She wants me to move all my stuff back, as if my material possessions would gravitate me to staying at home. No thanks--one visits Hell if one is curious; one does not choose to stay in hell. And I possess my possessions; my possessions do not possess me.
Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and proximity makes the mind descend into madness.
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