|I will miss you Tallahassee.|
Yesterday, I exercised my right to complete manly household tasks in the absence of a penis or Rosie O’Donnell. With one day left in my apartment, I had to finally paint over the metallic blue wall in my bedroom that my dad has picassoed two years ago. Due to the fact that I live in an apartment complex run by the cheapest family since the Jacksons, I was told the original color of the walls could only be purchased from them, at $60 a gallon. As an alternative to enabling the continuation of this paint monopoly, I opted to liberate a can from their personal stash in the unlocked repair shed. Stealing is wrong, but so is exploiting poor college kids. If anything, I’ll leave an apology letter for handyman Henry who pedals around in his black do-rag and Steelers shirt fixing the shitty apartments the Cheapenstein Bros constructed. Not to mention he’s snaked my shower drain five different times, each occasion taking a brief moment to glance at my freakishly long locks, roll his eyes and shake his head. That’s handyman sign language for cut yo damn hair you dumb white bitch so I don’t have to fist your drain every muthaeffin day.
I bought a five-dollar painting kit from Wally World and figured that because my father owned a painting company I’d be naturally inclined to painting greatness. Wide left with that assumption. My first hurdle arose when Tarzan here realized that to release the paint from the sealed can I’d need some sort of tool. Considering the only tools I own are scissors and a wine opener, the fact that I pried it open without sawing off my thumb deserves some sort of National MacGyver Home Depot Scholarship Grant. Subsequently, I discovered the difference between duct tape and painter’s tape. That difference being that there’s a difference. Finally, I learned that recklessly placing the tray of paint below the stepladder undoubtedly results in paint covered grocery feet. Regardless, I finished the solo job with merely a few spots that appear as if some epileptic monkey decided to finger paint… and an unintended huffing high from the fumes.
Today at the bus depot, on my way to the restroom a random old bus driver asked when my last day was. Tomorrow, I reply, which prompts an aggressive bear hug followed by an, I’m really going to miss you. I’m wasn’t aware I’d actually made a compadre here, other than the bald mechanic that shouts “it’s the movie star”—because of my obligatory appearance in the bus commercials—from behind dumpsters, in the break room, in my office, when I’m walking to my car, etc. He’s like the Ryan Seacrest of the bus depot… 100% annoying and 100% unavoidable. But not even my autistic bald stalker surprised me around a dark corner with a goodbye card and a cupcake. Instead, they just told me to drive around and super glue Braille signs on the bus stops in the rain. So basically my goodbye party consisted of super-gluing my fingers to a slippery pole. If I had a nickel… (kidding)
It still hasn’t hit me that after tomorrow Tallahassee will no longer be my home. I’ll no longer have to dodge packs of random gang riots in the middle of Tennessee Street or travel to the gas station past 7 pm packin heat in case I need to referee bum fight. It will no longer be acceptable to wear a toddler’s unicorn costume, a mustache or Magic School Bus costume put together from Goodwill to the bar in celebration of a birthday… or just because it’s awkward shirt Saturday. Bystanders will frown upon dousing the sober pledge ride with beer because he arrived at 2:05. Instead of putting customers to shame by getting exponentially drunker than anyone there and performing strip teases on the bar, bartenders will merely pour overpriced drinks with too much ice and not enough roofie. Nightlife will crawl with middle-aged self-loathers trying to relive their glory daze while awkwardly hitting on their children’s friends. I will never again get into a taxi cab and be able to say: You’re the cab driver that tickled my mom’s feet! And receive the response, Aw yeah, how she doin? When I exit the bar, there won't be a real-life scene from You Got Served occurring adjacent to "Reid the Hot Dog Man," a semi-nice man who makes a mean weiner and once Facebook messaged my friend to return her wallet that a bum had discovered.
No more poppin’ tops at 8am on autumn Saturdays or beer funneling in random parking lots because the excuse: IT’S GAMEDAY BITCH doesn’t work as well on moms or cops not mounted on livestock. Wearing a St. Patrick’s Day t-shirt that reads “kiss me I’m SHITFACED” may be considered offensive or misconstrued to insinuate that you have fecal matter on your face. And as one lies on the couch nursing an epic hangover, the unspoken rule of no loud noises til advil, no responsibilities til tomorrow and only greasy food won’t exist and parents will rapid fire stupid questions like, why are you hung over, why did you drink so much, will you put the dishes away, can you help your brother with his math homework, did you know that binge drinking is bad for your liver? So post meal liver failure is a valid excuse from dish duty. That’s all I really needed to know.