octological

It has become painfully apparent that I need to get my groove back. By that I do not mean I need to have sex with some handsome islander but conquer one or two things on a nagging list of unaccomplishments that I carry around on a metaphorical sash of anti-merit badges.

Most of all, I need to learn to drive, become comfortable with driving, and get my damn driver's license already. Until I do that, Manhattan will never be a place of extreme freedom but merely a very cool prison. I can not function in mainstream American society (MAS) until I dismantle this roadblock. (Before you ask why I care about functioning in MAS, consider the fact that one can not firebomb a Wal-Mart if one can not reach the Wal-Mart.) And I hate feeling like an impotent tourist in my hometown.

So I'm taking a sabbatical from this beautiful but equally impotent cheesemongering Manhattan life to return to MAS. Go west, young woman. No, not that far, just to Kentucky. Drive. Listen to lots of Kieran Kane. Spend time with family. Listen to Dad sing in the choir. Drink coffee with Unitarians. Play with a little dog. Hang out with that perennial stranger of a little brother.

I don't know yet when I'm leaving. I have not alerted my parents to this new plan. I'm not sure how to handle this interlude. But I have decided it is necessary.