Snowbound and Irate

Dear Vinny,

I hope the rest of your winter vacation went well after you left cold-ass Icaria. Please, mark your calendar when I say this: I'm glad you came up. Things have been weird still -- hell, I'm not sure you yet believe how weird they've been. And they've certainly not gotten any less fucked-up. Oh, no possession or ghosts visiting since the last time, but I'm not sure I need that kind of mess to make it this bad. But...

Well. Let me just put it this way. As much as I freaked out at you showing up, and hemmed and hawwed, and was generally a complete mess? Seeing you helped straighten my head out a bit, even if it took a couple of weeks afterward to really do it. And it was good to see you.

And yes, the sex was bloody hot. As always. Sigh.

Anyway. Remember when I said they've been fucked up since? Yeah. I seem to have developed a twitch where I would say the single worst thing possible in a conversation, while thinking I was being funny. Or trying to lighten the mood. Or...well. You get the idea. Frankly, I'm surprised anyone wants to talk to me at all, but I seem to have pulled myself out of it. At least a bit. The bloody nose helped.

Just as an aside: if I get arrested, will you come bail me out? I may need it this semester. There are...plans. I'm tired of the people I care about being screwed over. I'm tired of them fucking with me. Maybe we're all wrong, and it's not the school staff...but if that's the case, I have even less of an idea what to do than I do now. So I'm running with this.

Yes. I know that was cryptic. It's called plausible deniability. Learn to love it.

Anyway. In news that is neither related to cryptic remarks or a sign of my impending insanity...or perhaps it is? I...have friends who would like to meet you. If you want to consider yourself invited back to visit for spring break, I think I can manage not to hide under rocks the whole time you're here. That is, of course, if you want to

(Yes, that also means I'm contemplating letting you meet them. Don't look too surprised.)

I hope your conquests have been swift and absolute, and that Miami is not too boring without me to torment.

In Exile,
William

The damn power isn't staying on long enough for me to get a proper entry written. I keep trying, it keeps dying. I'm writing it on paper for now; when things get more stable, I'll try transcribing it. Or I'll see if I can type like the wind during the next flash of light and warmth.

However, in brief:
* Not a Tropical Popsicle
* Not shaving
* Rethinking Lent for Thought-Out Reasons
* Worried
* Regretful
* Pleased with D&D
* Considering setting up a camera outside Byron's open door

More on most of these, if not all, when weather permits. I bless the world for hot chocolate; I manage to get heat in bursts enough to keep making more. People are welcome to drop by to share.

First, a disclaimer about the last: I'm not diving out a third story window, or planning on finding a convenient rafter to hang myself by my belt from, or going to shove ice down the back of Dot's shirt, or any of the dozens of other methods of suicide I can conceive of. So stop fretting about the title, and let me write this in the right order.

I've been simply thinking for days, ever since Vinny left. For those who didn't know, my ex-girlfriend came to visit for Christmas. Actually, she came to scope out Icaria, and tormenting me was just a handy side benefit. Seems The Powers That Be have their long fingers and watchful eyes on her as well, and sent her the usual lure of a scholarship. I'm not sure she could have picked worse timing for when to actually find me, or a worse convocation of circumstances to get tangled up in the middle...

Actually, scratch that. I've a wild enough imagination that I can picture it, and with my luck, it'll come to pass when she decides to drop in again now that she's pinpointed me on her radar. Let's pray that never happens.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Thinking. Vinny was here in a whirlwind -- found me staggering between a blow to the nose and an apology on Christmas, Lunch onward on Boxing Day, and then gone before I'd even woken up the day after. I imagine there's a section of the audience laughing their asses off now. After all, that's two girls lost inside a month, and one of them was stalking me. I must be some catch, huh?

Except the second left a letter, at least, along with some cold clarity that I've spent the last few days processing. Which is why Miss Scarlett, the Round Table, and Lust are now carefully pinned up over my desk, as a reminder. (Thanks, guys, again.) Vinny's letter is pinned up as well, closed so the lipstick shows, just beneath them.

Because I've been loved. Screwed up, messed up, mixed up mess, but still love...and from what I've seen, I'm not sure love is ever anything but. And I nearly loved, was starting to love, a girl who didn't love me back. Or maybe she was afraid to love me back, afraid to even consider the possibility. It amounts to the same thing now, as there's no chance to break down the walls and see where possibilities will take us. There's too much ocean in the way, for one thing, and she didn't brand me as hers clearly enough before she left. My heart broken, but with no formal bill of sale before she fled the store.

So my heart's broken. Congratulations, Billy Boy, you join the ranks of a million, billion other people who've come before you, poets and artists and writers and mailmen and accountants and meter maids and farmers and all the rest. Doesn't make you special...or does it? It's not a very exclusive club, and it doesn't give me right to run off and be a self-absorbed ass (at least, not for any longer than anyone's got that right for a bit at points in their lives), but it's still...a step. A test. Every day's a test, sure, but sometimes you pay attention to certain tests more than others.

It boils down to a question: how do I want to pass this test?

I've loved, and lost, and went rampaging in a brief but colorful dance along the edge of the dark. I find myself glad at times that my vices are wine, women and song...though I'm sure my neighbors are sick of my musical tastes. I am, I think, a courteous drunkard; no public displays of unfortunate affection, no flirtations I regret in the morning, no drunk dialing, no attempting to hit on my best friend just because I'm sauced. (Because, of course, I like to remember when I hit on my best friend.) So while it could all be a whole hell of a lot worse? I'd like to be a little bit better.

I must, therefor, reneg on giving up women, and giving up on the human race. Because I've had reminders the last few days of why I feel the way I do about both, and coupled with that aforementioend introspective haze I've been in I feel like...well. It hurts, it still hurts, but it's not a hurt I regret. I try not to regret even the mistakes.

But this is still the end...the end of the year, and the start of a new one. I don't know that I want to make resolutions, exactly; someone once said that promises were just made to be broken. But...well, let's just say I have bullet points:

• I'm grateful, and thankful, and all that mess, for the friends I've made in the three short months I've been up here in wintry exile. Dot, Emi, Anne, and Mikhail get top billing, but they're not the entire roster.
• Dot? Special recognition for going above and beyond the call of duty, more than once. I can't make it up, but you know I'd do the same for you without hesitation. Or I hope you know. I even have spots ready to help you hide the bodies.
• Thank you, Tanne. Because there were good times.
• Yes, I did give Byron the clap and the pox, and I'm fucking PROUD. So there. OMG, ourloveissopure.
• I'm not giving up on girls, but I am...well, let's say I'm giving up lust for lent. Yes, even if the closest I come to being Catholic are a few similarities between Krishna and Christ.
• Watch this space for geekery of the highest degree, to be announced formally before the semester starts. I'm still reading the books, but...ideas are forming.
• The past is the past, and can stay right the fuck there, thanks.

That last one, in particular, I know is harder put into practice than simply said, but...it's a sort of goal to aim for, I think. There are too many ghosts.

Oh, and as a final closing note: I hear there's a party tonight, to celebrate the new year. While I'm not doing my best hermit impression anymore, I'm not quite recovered enough to feel like I'd manage in a crowd. So instead, I'll be hosting a tiny little celebration in MacArthur. If anyone wants to drop in and give a toast, either before or after the main event over at Geoffrey's, feel free. That goes double for you, Dot and Hemi, if you guys make it back in time.

Whatever your choice of venue, whoever you choose to spend it with: have a lovely New Year's Eve, kiss the person you want to kiss at midnight, and may the year to come be fucking spectacular.

PS -- Because I can't help but play DJ for a moment or two, I leave you with appropriate tunes from some boys from Seattle I'm a little fond of.

Death Cab for Cutie, "The New Year"

Things I can do without: visions in the shower. I had another one -- they're coming faster. This time, I nearly thought I was going to drown. Things I don't like, number 2053: salt water up my nose. Followed shortly by storm-tossed waves, getting hit by bits of the rigging, and last but not least? Thrown overboard.

It already hurt to take a shower in the first place, after Friday night. Which was fucked up enough as it is. And now this? I don't know. Throwing up what I swear tasted like salt water while kneeling on the tile floor, not the way I want to start today or any day.

I'd be more pissed off if I wasn't worried sick at this point.

To: Karen Dinesen [kdinesen@euphememail.net]
From: William Pendennis [wpendennis@euphememail.net]
Subject: Events at Home (was: Out of Town for some time)

Tanne,

I'm sorry you're telling me over email as well. Please, be careful; I'm sure the Machiavellis will do their best in these matters. You can call or write at any time, if you have need.

Speaking of Machiavelli: I attempted to reach you before your flight, but you either weren't answering your phone or had already turned it off. Nico was taken to the hospital last night; it's unclear exactly what happened, but he passed out in someone's room and was foaming at the mouth, and they had to pump his stomach. I went to the hospital first thing this morning, and he was awake, coherent, and seemingly fine. I'm not certain what happened, but I wanted to make sure you heard from someone directly rather than through the grapevine. The nurse seemed to think they'd be keeping him there for observation for a few days. If I hear more, you will be the first to know.

Is there anything that you need taken care of, while you're away, that I can handle? I imagine you will let me do that much, still?

Bill

They say Spring is the time for romance. I think they have never had to endure a New England Winter. As I ward off the ever-present threat of frostbite, and watch my fellow animals in this zoo we call Icaria, I've come to the conclusion that while Spring may be a time for lovers, these dwindling days of Autumn are just as much an aphrodesiac. After all, when you're snowbound inside, what would you rather be doing?

a. Homework
b. Gossiping about who's sleeping with who
c. Expanding the range of possibilities vis-a-vis who's sleeping with who

Let's just say I'm putting my money on the last two options. Maybe it's more than the cold; even a tropical snob like me has to admit that the leaves are gorgeous this time of year, the forest aflame in ways that I'll leave it to much better poets than I to attempt to describe. I'd quote Robert Frost, but all that comes to mind is Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

At least it's poetry that's vaguely on-topic, as well. We've certainly got enough ice around here these days, and I know it's just going to get worse. As for fire...well. We can count it a blessing for some that I wasn't burned like Guy Fawkes at Dot's Fundraising Dinner -slash- Pizza Extravaganza. Perhaps she's saving that for Homecoming, though; I would go up in a pretty good blaze if we soaked me in all the alcohol we can afford from donations. That, or maybe she'll toss me to the other girls who didn't have Campaign Managers. I know we've got to have a bacchanal around here at some point, dammit!

(Special note to someone who shall remain nameless: You still have three days. If you haven't yet, ASK HER.)

Of course, the girls apparently lost the lottery to see who would tar and feather me first. As previously and briefly reported, I was given what I do believe the young kids are calling "a trouncing" after the party. Four guys, none of whom I saw real clearly in the dark, and a pummeling later, and into the dumpster I went. Wounds were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, a twisted ankle, a wounded ego, and one unrepairable shoe. Somehow, I was lucky enough to have a sharp-tongued Angel of Mercy drop in and apply first aid to the physical wounds, and a good lancing to the ego before it tried to fester. Add in a more gentle touch later that night, and a weekend to recover, and I do believe the limp and the shiner will be gone in time for Homecoming. Underlying causes? We'll address after we find out if I'm surviving Saturday.

Speaking of Homecoming: yours truly is dateless. C'est la vie! Thankfully, my fingers will be occupied with other pursuits -- at least, hopefully, this will be my debut as the trumpet section for Smutty Moll. Though still, given the way things are looking, I may be the only guy going stag. I was..let us say, pre-empted?...in my first choice by Mr. Fly-By-Night, and the second option...well. Apparently, even the budding possibility of Autumn romance is more whirlwind up here than even I'm used to. I can't be upset, though. Not in the face of budding adorableness to this degree. They may actually need to issue a license; I'm not certain this kind of cute isn't lethal in uncontrolled doses.

As I look back over my previous paragraph, a clarification: I don't mean to say that second and any other options unasked (one was suggested to me, but I think I'm staying further away from the knives than that, at least for that night) would have been consolation dates compared to who I had been considering at first. I'm not that cutthroat and mercenary a bastard. There is a damn reason I'm going stag rather than working my way down the list into the truly desperate for a date, just like there's a reason I'm not even asking the possible third. She, and everyone else? Deserves better than that.

Anyway. Enough self-reflection. I'll just end by noting that, despite not having really talked about it? There is some serious strangeness afoot in this town. I think I've shaken the majority of the cloud that'd been over my head since Halloween. At least, I'd like to hope I have. But that leaves questions. Consider this a note to self: Talk to D and E when you get a chance. Better informed than blindsided again, after all.

You know what the perfect end to a perfect night is?

I'll tell you. It involves getting gang-rushed by four guys in the dark, slammed against a brick wall in the alley behind Minelli's, punched in the gut a few times, and then thrown into the dumpster before they all run off, laughing.

Oh, let's not forget the warnings to "stay away from things that don't belong to me."

I need the fucking bactine.

Dear Knee,

Let's start at the beginning: Yes, I know you hate it when I call you by that ridiculous nickname, and it's so demeaning to be shouted after like you were a loose body part. To which I give you the standard reply: I'm your big brother, so cope. At least I'm not rubbing mud in your hair and pulling your pigtails. You should be grateful.

I made it up to Massachusetts without any major tragedy, at least. It was a long train trip, but I think you would have liked it. Plenty of time for people-watching, certainly, and the chance to stretch your legs the whole time. A bit bumpier than a plane, and obviously longer, but the trade-offs were nice. Now if only it didn't cost so much compared to a flight, it might be an attractive alternative. As it is, at least when you're going so long-distance that it's more expensive than the regular commuter routes, it's more of a luxury that I would have expected. And Amtrak is nothing like the Orient Express.

It's been a little over a week, though, and I think I've settled into school here. First, the whole 'boarding school' thing is very strange. Maybe this is prep for dorm life, but I don't think so. It might be the age of the buildings, that lingering smell of decades baked into every brick and board, but it just feels archaic and strange in some way. Not that the students would help matters there. From what I can tell, we've an unhealthy mix of the overly-intellectual, the decidedly eccentric, and the rich elite. Really, all that you would expect from reading a nineteeth century boarding school drama. I'm just waiting for the headmaster to be a harsh disciplinarian, or a quiet bastion of compassionate understanding, and we'd be all set.

I wonder if they're offering Defense Against the Dark Arts next semester.

I've met some friends, too. At least, I like to delude myself into thinking they may become friends. There's Tanne, who I think you'd like. Anyone who turns their angsty rebellion against their rich and important family into actual social commentary that's worth making, and not just getting coked up and blowing money by the boatload in some dance club earns points. Of course, I don't know what I can say about her taste in men, given she's married one of the previously mentioned 'rich elite' -- rich elitist jock, even, just to compound the issue. And yes, I said married -- it's a long story. They always are, you know: controlling family, arranged marriages, and the like. It's just missing a fairy godmother and a prince charming.

There's also Dot. I know you'd like her -- she can't stand me, and doesn't see any reason to hold back from cutting me down to size any chance she gets. Clearly, I can never have the two of you meet, or you'd just give her more ammo with a gleeful little smile. That's all right; if I have anything to say about it, she's going to end up Homecoming Queen. As I do believe the young people are saying these days, "Payback is a bitch." Not that there's anything I really need to pay her back for, but I believe in preemptive strikes.

I know I joked about it being strange here, but Halloween was...there was a dance, but something happened. I'm still not certain what. I'm sorry to be so cryptic, but I'm trying to figure it out. And in the meantime, I had one new friend disappear after it, and another get hurt pretty badly. Everyone is avoiding the topic, at least with me, so it's that much harder to process. I know, I'm not being much better, I just wanted you to know that...if I was coming off a little stilted, you can probably blame it on that. I...

I miss you. And I'm worried. I'll try to explain when I can, but I don't know when that will be. I know, before you can even say it: I'll take care of myself, I promise. Things are just harder than I thought they would be here, for reasons I never expected. Maybe I'm not cut out for any pond but the familiar one, down in Miami. Wouldn't that be a depressing thought.

Anyway, I need to get back to work. I've got homework to take care of before the fundraising dinner tomorrow night (yes, I'm fundraising for a homecoming queen. Maybe it's a long way for a joke, but I'm enjoying the journey). I promise I'll come up as soon as I can to visit, as long as the doctors say it's all right. Don't let that Mary Lapinski push you around, you hear me?

Loves and noogies,
Bill

So, I'm officially here, finally. Not just in Icaria, but in my room in MacArthur Hall at Eupheme. Nothing's unpacked but my laptop for the moment, but at least that much is done. Currently, I'm braving the chill evening breeze to air the room out. I'd almost believe I was a responsible student if I walked in on me, at this point.

Finding the school after leaving the B&B was pretty easy, especially with directions from my secret admirer after I complimented her muffins (the blueberry sort, you perverts.) It's hard to get lost in a town this size, though; I swear, all I'd need to do would be to climb the nearest tree, and I could probably get a birds-eye view of all the major streets from there. It wouldn't even need to be a particularly tall tree.

First obstacle successfully completed: find the school. Which lead directly to the second obstacle: negotiate the administration, and explain why I was a day late in arriving. Thankfully, with my parents entirely out of a reasonable time zone to contact in a reasonable manner, I was able to reasonably explain that there had been simple, reasonable miscommunication, and today was actually the day I was meant to get to town. Isn't it grand, living as we do in the Age of Reason? You can get away with a lot, as long as you know that fine line between buttering up your school officials and too obviously kissing their well-educated asses.

Having made it through both of those rings of fire, it was a cakewalk to find MacArthur Hall. Ah, home sweet home, at least for the next nine months or so. I'm also reassured: there were sane people there. At least two -- Emi, who apparently has the room next to mine, and Sam, who was moving out of the room I was moving into. Emi had a cold, apparently, which does wonders for reassuring me that he's not really a cyborg plant. (We're close to Stepford, after all; it was worth considering as a possibility!)

There were then the traditional offerings to new blokes: a cup of tea, and a few hits on the shared blunt. Aside from Emi's apparent pirate fetish (which hey, can you blame a guy?) they both seemed pretty normal. Though the stereo warning that "Lucy" -- whoever she is aside from the hot date Emi was having to miss -- wasn't looking for a boyfriend? Pretty damn funny. Even if I did let my lack-of-sleep slip show and mangle us into a digression on girls being girls versus girls being guys.

Aside: what is it about androgyny that comes in and out of fashion? Is it the mystery? Is it the fact that Julie Andrews was pretty fucking hot as both Victor and Victoria? And how about the issue that I don't really care how butch Shirley Manson is, I'd still do her in a heartbeat if given the opportunity? Maybe this is a side effect of that whole thing where sexuality isn't an absolute, but a spectrum, and I'm just further to the side of "hey, I'd totally get in the middle of a Rufus Wainwright/Alan Cumming sandwich if given the opportunity" than most other guys. Of course, in my experience, most other guys are absolutely desperate to prove they're not gay, not quote-unquote "weak", not standing out from the sheep's herd. Baaaa.

Sam's apparently in a band. Ska. And looking for a brass player. Conveniently enough, I did remember to bring my trumpet. We'll have to see just how things go once I can settle in and give them a try-out.

Sam is also, apparently, a bigger pothead than South American drug smugglers flying planes into Miami. That, or he's been hotboxing guys with the tolerance of bull rhinos up in his room. Emi took me upstairs to my room after Sam left -- which is probably good, because it kept me from staring at the man openly, given the sheer imbedded funk in the room. I'm surprised there wasn't resin caked on the walls in layers thick enough to scrape off and re-smoke.

After Emi abandoned me to the imposing reality of my situation, and I ascertained that the crap they had for cleaning in the Hall wasn't up to this particular challenge, I went in search of the first place I could think of where I could find them: the girls' dorm.

You can all point and laugh now at me being a sexist pig.

And this, of course, is the point in which I ran into Dot. At least, she didn't deny that she was Emi's Dot -- Dorothy, Diva of Delaney Hall. I'm not quite sure I trust Mon Capitan's position that she's the best girl on campus, even if he did offer me a position in the crow's nest. Actually, I will say that the girl thinks quick on her feet, and doesn't take shit -- even if I wasn't trying to give her shit. Go me and my first impressions, huh? And she owns me a raincheck. Note to self: make sure it's worth it when you cash it.

Ah well, at least she had lysol and that Oxy-clean stuff. Which, in combination, have done wonders for getting this place so that it doesn't smell like a Rastafarian Shrine. But now I'm so tired that the thought of facing class tomorrow makes me whimper. I cling to the bright spots: tomorrow night I can properly unpack, and in the morning? I think I actually have a date for coffee. Let's hope I can find the place.

So I'm here, and yet I'm not. The train did what trains do for the last few hours, and eventually disgorged me and my luggage like the sea leaving flotsam on the shoreline. The vast steel monster has rumbled toward destinations further north, and the rest of the passengers getting off here have all been met by loved ones of one sort or another, or otherwise found their way to other parts unknown. I swirled about in their wakes until they were all gone, then found my way to this bench out front. There was a vague mention back in Miami of a ride, but I'm not entirely certain how much I trust that it was actually arranged in the whirlwind that was my packing before my departure.

For now, though, no one is here holding up a placard with my name waiting to whisk me away, so it seems best to clear whatever thoughts lingered after the train ride before I'm either picked up, or I eventually give the hell up on that silly thing mortals call 'patience' and go looking for the school myself. The town simply isn't that big, from what I understand, so it can't be all that hard a thing to manage.

But one thing at a time. Perhaps others would consider it silly fussiness to clear my head like this before tackling this entirely new situation, but I think of it a bit like taking a huge breath before diving into the deep end of the pool. If it keeps me from drowning? I'm not going to sneeze at it. We all have our silly rituals, after all, our empty little patterns that anyone else would look at us strangely for doing but help us keep hold of our sanity. I won't laugh at yours if you don't laugh at mine.

It's sobering, in its way, to sit here waiting to see if anyone will be coming along to rescue me. My parents, at this point, are almost literally on the other side of the globe now. My friends are all thousands of miles away. Just who would think to worry if they hadn't heard from me in days? More notably, just who would bother showing up to gather me and my luggage up? Who cares that much, at this point in my life? And please, don't suggest the crazy ex.

I suspect my shrink -- if I had a shrink -- would consider it worrisome if I admitted that I think the greatest love story of our time may be that of Susan Delgado of Mejis and Roland Deschain of Gilead. I can just see the notes being scribbled in professional concern now, bullet points on my Romeo and Juliet-esque fetish or my self-association with a too-young killer and his doomed love. I only shudder to think they might assume I thought myself anywhere near that important to the fabric of the universe, too.

By the face of my father, I'm not nearly that delusional. If a psychiatric professional is going to worry about anything, they may want to focus properly on the fact that I'm not entirely certain that love exists. I don't doubt affection, familial or otherwise. I don't question friendship. But love, in the deeply romantic sense, true love star-crossed or otherwise? I'm not certain human beings are truly close enough to the divine to manage that, to be truly self-sacrificing without at least subconsciously expecting the reward at the end of what they give. And as for fate...fate is a joke.

So Roland and Susan, imperfect and desperate and hungry for each other, and betrayed by ka in the end of the day? It's a beautiful, achingly perfect love story...and utter, absolute fantasy.

Which, given my particular track record in that regard, probably makes me a manipulative, cynical bastard. I do try not to play on love so much as a Don Juan, for all that I'm admittedly quite fond of flirtation, of the chase, of what comes at the end of that particular chase. I won't shy from the fact that I am more than fond of the allures of the female of the species. But the heat of passion, however often the ubiquitous They would like you to think was deathless love, is not and shouldn't ever be confused for that.

But we are, of course, simply human, alone even in a crowd and desperate for contact and connection we're all fundamentally afraid of opening ourselves to -- and if we open too quickly, you have the choice of being hurt by those who have been driven mad by their own desperate need, or you end up waiting for the shoe to drop and find out fundamentally that you're incompatible on some inarguable point or another. And yet we stand ready to do it again, to throw ourselves into the breach dear friends and dare to hope, even when we know it won't work. To take that last deep breath before jumping into love, hoping that this time it won't be freezing cold, or we won't hit our heads on the bottom.

Some would call that faith. I, on the other hand, can't decide if I should laugh or cry.

As I re-read the last few paragraphs, I clearly need more sleep, and not to re-read Stephen King novels to pass the time on long trips. There's a certain level of cynical bastard I'm comfortable with being, but that's all a bit much even for me.

On the positive side, however, it did help cleanse the palate. I'll leave the emo rantings for another day, secreted in this little black book of mine. For now, I feel actually up to facing finding my new home, meeting my new compatriots, and if I'm lucky, fumbling in and out of love a few dozen times while I give in to those lures again and again. It may hurt, but it's a forbidden fruit that tickles my sweet tooth every time.

I think that's enough waiting, though. I need to walk off some of this nervous energy, and hopefully, I'll stumble across someplace to get a drink on the way.

Don't let the title fool you; I'm still on the train. I have yet to set foot off it, in fact. One thing I will give good old Amtrak: the sleeper cars are actually pretty comfortable, with the rumble of the rails rocking you off to slumber. Of course, give me a bottle of that glow-in-the-dark spray stuff they use on CSI and five minutes alone in my room, and I'm sure I'd have the heebie jeebies about just how much bodily fluid was sprayed all over the place like the scene of a bad slasher flick.

Just this morning, we rolled our way past New York. The city that never sleeps, that's so nice they named it twice, that microcosm of the melting pot that the United States used to be. If you're from anywhere at all, you can find a place to fit in there. Okay, maybe not if you're Amish, but even they would find parts of Central Park comforting, I'm sure. Especially the parts where it's harder to see all those huge skyscrapers towering around them. It's hard to find any other place where anyone at all can come and experience what it is to be truly American: choking on car exhaust, drowning in advertisements, and the victim of a hate crime from someone who just happened to get their foot off the boat a day before you did.

After a few hours short of enough sleep, I staggered my way down to the meal car in search of breakfast. Surprisingly, what they're serving isn't absolutely vile, though that may be because I'm sticking to the continental breakfast model of muffins and fruit. I think they need to see if the conductor pissed off one of the cooks, though, since this coffee tastes like someone filtered it through their jock before pouring it for us poor unsuspecting fellow travelers. At least the cheap half-and-half cuts the aftertaste.

As we've gotten further north, our progress has strangely slowed. If I were feeling poetic, I'd try to explain it in terms of the train's reluctance to leave warm weather climes as Autumn starts staking its claim on the days. Or maybe I'd suggest that, as we move up into the sprawl of the earliest areas settled by the White Man on this land across the Atlantic, the train simply has to stop and take in the sheer wonder that this experiment in exile (self-imposed or otherwise) and convict rehabilitation still manages to work, at least for one more day.

But I'm too pragmatic for that before I've had real coffee, and I know it's just that the cities are closer together up here, so the train has to stop more often. Yet we've managed never to quite hit that critical point where progress has stopped entirely, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach has blossomed into full-blown dread. Three hours, and only that much because the commuter trains take precedence, and we'll be at my stop.

Gods, I need another muffin. More tonight, if I'm not eaten alive by the natives first.

Someone said that Hell is other people. I'm pretty sure it was Sartre. But he was French, so you can't trust a thing that bastard ever said. Hell, like heaven, is all in your head. Don't believe those cheerleaders when they try to tell you salvation can be found in the nearest closet for seven minutes.

Though let me tell you, those seven minutes do come close if you're in the right frame of mind.

One would think then that Hell was easy to avoid: keep a positive attitude, don't let The Man get you down, remind yourself that other people don't have control over what you feel. One who thinks that should then be laughed out of polite society for being dangerously naive. Anyone who is that in control of their own feelings is either dangerously solipsistic, and thus certain that only their feelings matter because they're the only person that is, or the Buddha. I'm neither, which is both a blessing and a curse. Instead, I am simply a man who realizes that he is not quite at the mercy of his surroundings, while still paying attention to them. In other words, Hell is in my own head, but other people get to help pick out the decor.

I'm writing this on the train, currently heading north out of Atlanta on our way to the Not-So-Great White Northeast. I'd try to sell you on it being terribly romantic, or at least exciting like the rides at the beginning of a Harry Potter book is, but I won't; Amtrak hasn't been romantic in decades, and I'm just not a good enough liar to pass off this feeling in the pit of my stomach as excitement instead of the dread it truly is. Honestly, my biggest thought at the moment is wondering why the hell my parents decided to send me off this way instead of by plane? Personally, I think they wanted to give me more time to contemplate my fate.

After spending the last decade and a half growing up in beautiful, sundrenched, bikini-babe-covered Miami, I find myself an exile now to climates that may as well be frozen-over Hell. This isn't even the twentieth century, must less the nineteeth; who sends their children off to boarding school anymore anyway? They can try to excuse it all they want -- tell me that Euphame is an honor to be accepted to, point out that with their jobs pulling both of them overseas it would be more trouble to get me into a proper school over there anyway, note that someone needs to stay close to poor Neela...but I know the truth. The moment they got back from seeing me to the train station? It was back to the house for a good ol' round of making the beast with two backs. Maybe I'll get a little brother out of the deal!

For as much as they're right about Neela, there are truly only two reasons to be glad for leaving Miami behind for the frosty aloofness of a Puritanical winter. First of all, it means I am away from my parents finally, and let's be honest: any mother who decides to give you the first and middle names of "William Makepeace", after her favorite author, needs some help. I should simply be glad I wasn't a girl, or I just know I'd be Rebecca Sharp Pendennis. It wouldn't be too bad for now, but the moment I hit college? Every professor and every hot guy majoring in Lit wouldn't have been able to stop laughing. And really, there's nothing sadder than a cute college girl who can't get a date except with idiots who don't read.

The second reason is, as most second reasons are, more complex. It's much easier to escape that ex you never want to see again at school if you're going to school in an entirely different state. It's even easier to dodge them -after- school that way, when you're not even bound by the dictates of class schedules. Now I can hear you all saying, 'It can't be that bad, Bill! It's just your ex, all sorts of people have to deal with seeing their ex-lovers frequently!' I'd like for you all to hear me saying, in answer to that? "Bite me." Let me tell you, it takes work to find a girl in high school that's actually worthy of a restraining order. You haven't filtered most of the sane ones out yet, or piled ten thousand students in one place like at a good-sized university, oh no. Instead, working with a limited pool, I manage to date the one girl who seems to think that high school romances last forever, who thinks spending more time with my parents than I do is a good way to endear herself, and who thinks that writing "Mrs. Bill Pendennis" all over the inside of her notebook is the best use ever invented for the ink in that Bic pen she's always chewing the end of.

Let's simply say that the breakup talk? Was not a fun one.

But two good things do not counterbalance being forcibly thrown out of the only place I've ever known, being separated from the friends I've had all my life, and forced to cope with life in a new school, a new town, a new state. Don't give me any excuses about 'everyone must leave the nest at some point'. I was planning on doing that without any help at all as soon as it was time for college. Doing it now? It's just plain cruel! But then, when has human nature ever shied away from cruelty? Just look at what our own government did in the name of "security", voting that it's just fine for us to condone torture as long as we can feel all right about it. I swear, everyone in Washington should have bamboo shoved under their nails before they get to vote on tossing out the Geneva Conventions. Of course, as they're mostly a bunch of pansy bastards, I'm sure they'd all squeal.

So now I am an unwilling expatriate, alone in one good way (may she never get permission to take a vacation in Massachusetts), and a great number of bad ones. I have very little idea what to expect, to be totally honest. Official pamplets being what they traditionally are, I don't much trust the document that was shoved into my hand just a few days before the date on my tickets. Thrust into the great unknown, and exiled from my tropical heaven to a decidedly frigid hell, I'm trying very hard to consider this an adventure and not a sentence. I suppose I should be glad I'm not like Neela, at the very least. She'd be disappointed in me if I gave up this easily, before I'd even gotten to this sun-forgotten place.

Besides, snowbunnies need love too, right?