Get me away from here, I’m dying

August 22, 2001

i woke up wishing today was thursday, but it’s not. thursday, i’m getting the hell out of here. i’m hopping a plane and never coming home, or that’s what i tell them and they just laugh nervously.

really, i’m just going on a trip, a mini-vacation, up the coast to see some of my favorite people. two days in san francisco, three days in seattle, five days away from here. no smog, no traffic, no movie stars. i won’t miss you, because i won’t be gone that long.


last night, i had a bad dream about a girl i know and it was one of those cinematic tales that feels like i am watching it on a big screen and it had bad guys and good guys and crying and screaming and racing to deadbolt doors. i feel like i need to call her and make sure she’s okay. the call would be much like one i received almost a year ago from my mom:

“i had a dream that you were missing and i wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“i’m okay.”

“okay, good.”


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