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The week has already basically wound down to a close, and, 24 hours from now, I will be on a plane bound for NYC with no plans to return to CA except to visit occasionally.  This is about as permanent as things go in my head, this decision made years and years and years ago that, once I left, I wouldn’t come back, and it’s an odd feeling, kind of, to have this slowly becoming reality, although I suppose who knows what will happen, really, because anything could.

Spent the week seeing people I like, except for the IF because she’s been busy, driving around in triple-degree heat with the AC on and music blasting (more playlists that don’t make sense, that juxtapose Nell and eAeon/Mot with Psy with Metric with BoA with Newsboys — all right, that’s not as random as my playlists are wont to be; ask the IF; she’ll confirm this), and, now, suddenly, it’s over, and I’m out of time, and I’ve really got to start packing at one point this evening.  Part of me doesn’t want to leave because life hit a pleasant stride in the last few years, but the rest of me recognises that as mere sentimentality, knows that it’s time to move on and take a full step away from the comforts of familiarity and fly — or, at least, try.

Hey, California, I’m going to miss you, but we had a good run, and I’m not going to look back.