Solitary

Friday was my last day of work at the Arboretum. You can read all about it in otherblog; I kept my emotions in check by staying fully busy up until the very last minute. Then I realized that while I cleaned out my desk pretty thoroughly, in my haste to leave I’d left my jump drive plugged in to my computer. So, less than 24 hours after saying “goodbye forever,” I found myself trying to break back in. I wound up calling security, who watched me like a hawk, like I was a disgruntled employee looking to torch the place. That was disheartening; it was like a neon sign saying “it’s really over now, honey! Move on!”

To cheer myself up on my first day of Arblessness, I decided to go to a movie by myself. And when I say by myself, I mean I was the only person in the damn theater. The movie (Baby Mama) was good, though, and it was pretty neat to have a private screening. That’s never happened to me before.

The rest of yesterday and today have been spent working on my portfolio (hence the desperation for my jump drive) and watching the first season of “Prison Break.” One of the characters said something like, “The point of solitary is to break you.” At two in the morning, halfway through a weekend of seriously limited human contact in an already solitary life, this seemed like a sign to either start meditating on my existence or go out and get some friends. Now, it seems like a sign that I should stop staying up until four A.M. watching prison dramas, no matter how cute the dude with the tattoos is.

I’ve now forced myself to re-enter society, so I’m at Caribou (and testing out my wireless connection — this is the first time Internet-ing with the shinynewthing, so if the spacing in this seems weird, that’s why). It’s not exactly a social hotspot — the only other two people here are both on their laptops, too — but I did get to see some teenagers set off a car alarm, an Indian man talk to his cappuccino, and a little person say “I’m not a virgin!” at an uncomfortably loud volume. Perhaps this is why I stick to solitary confinement — all my ventures into the public turn into experiments in the awkward.

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