un voyage au vermont

I can’t believe I just had to type 05/19/12 in the title blank of this post. One year ago on this day at this hour, I was probably up making videos for my girlfriend. Chain smoking. Playing the ukulele quieted and unplugged so I wouldn’t wake my mum. This time last year, I was laying in bed, feeling on top of the world, feeling euphoric, feeling whole, feeling loved. What the fuck happened? Oh yeah, I happened.

I feel in no way, shape, or form obligated to provide any sort of information regarding my whereabouts. Asking the questions ‘where have you been’, ‘where are you now’, and ‘when are you coming back’ and not receiving an answer is not going to affect how you sleep at night;

In fact, nothing I say is going to affect how you sleep at night. Unless, of course, you are the type of person who would cling onto some tiny little blog entry like this and use it to create attention for yourself by making up untrue answers to the questions above. If you do happen to be one of those people: See that red bubble in the top left hand corner?

Go ahead and click it.

Okay, now that we got that over with…

Dear Glen Ellyn,

You are surprisingly missed every single day.

Even more surprising is the tears that have been formed in the name of the your habitants. Please treat yourself well, for you hold many of my loved ones.

Dear Roosevelt Road,

Gone are the days spent driving down your outstretched limbs with a packed bowl in one hand, and a cell phone in the other. Instead, expect me to return to you with a more genuine smile, and an even more genuine group of friends.

Dear Fiancée,

(Yes, we are still together. Dumbasses.)

I am now prepared, better than ever, to spend every waking moment of my life in the pursuit of your forgiveness of the past, and your optimism of the future we are about to spend together.

Dear Bulimia, Illicit Drugs, and Cutting,

Fuck. You.

If I knew what name I was going to go by when I returned, I would sign it here. Instead, I am going to steal a quote from my current favorite poet, in hopes those of you reading this will find some sort of comfort. (That is only, of course, if you have any concern to be relieved in the first place.)

“Will it make me something?

Will I be something?

Am I something?

And the answer comes:

Already am,

Always was,

And I still have time to be”

-Sans nom

As I prepare myself to say goodbye to everything that is familiar to me, I am flooded with memories that this Town has provided me, as well as the things it has taught me: to by myself, to be abused and battered, to smoke at 12, to have sex at 13, to pop pills by 14, to shoot up by 15, to be gay, to be loved, to love. To write. To scream. To breathe. To live. To breathe.
This Town has been with me, like my Room, through it all. But the thing I shall be eternally grateful for, is this: It allowed me back into it’s safe, judgmental arms after I abandoned it dozens of times and fleeted off to a place I convinced myself was home, all the while being proved wrong. I was home all along.

When all else fails, turn to poetry.
“Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.”