Don’t You Forget About Me: Two Hundred Forty-Five

15397_9664Here I am, here I am.

More than a bit concerned about what seemed so simple upon leaving – going back and filling out the days I was out being crazy (in my way)  – now, even though I tried to take some notes while on the plane (the situation dictated that I got to the gate about 3 minutes before we started boarding so I was really keyed up and jumpy and couldn’t quite focus), it’s all a bit of a blur.   I will do it, though, because there’s plenty to talk about if I can just get my brain to think about things in a chronological matter.   It may end up being done in reverse, but for people that pick up the tale at the proper spot, perhaps it will seem as though everything is ordered correctly.  I am just going to use initials, though, for the people involved because while I don’t think I can be sussed out, I care about my own discretion and anonymity here and given the stories that might be brought up, I feel it’s only fair for me to do what I can to protect theirs since none of them have given me any permission to review our collective shit and put it out to the internet for public consumption.

So I suppose I won’t try and summarize everything now, and say that we woke up this morning, somehow, around 7a.m. with the con savior, M, bringing everyone coffee and lovingly getting us awake (this being a hell of a lot easier for some of us than others, and luckily, M got S in bed with water the night before so she’d sobered up enough to struggle down the strangely quiet elevators with their packed up luggage to avoid what would later be an insane rush.  It’s an eerie feeling, watching this place once so incredibly alive with teeming thousands of geeky, inept, loving, drunk-ass, gross, awful, genuine and bitchfaced nerds revert back to just a massive, cavernous hotel.  We look at one another like we’ve survived something that can’t properly be transmitted to anyone who wasn’t a part of it, sipping coffee and nursing headaches.  I don’t have any real lasting effects of the rum bucket or triple Jameson and Diet Coke I got down my gullet the night before, but when we return to the room, there’s some puking (which may or may not have happened in a hotel’s conveniently placed ice bucket) to do. Eventually, though, the first group is tearfully goodbyed and then J and I get some breakfast to help her sober herself to drive me to the airport and herself home.   When we return to the room, we find out it’s a two hour wait for a bellhop.   More eventualies got me to the airport in the nick of time, settled between a guy who might have been nice but after one wry comment went right to sleep (I also looked like hell, so I was fine with this) and another guy who went right to sleep, a shuttle, and a song or two and I am home.

I think…I am going to quit my job.

I think so.



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