In the meantime, I've never been more emotionally removed from life; and I'm doing it on purpose. I have this irrational yet extremely real fear of meeting the love of my life right before I move away. Why? Because that's my fucking luck, that's why. I'm not talking to any local strangers or distant acquaintances before I leave. I'm going out Saturday night and I'll only address tourists, because that's what I feel like right now. I'm a tourist who has to go to work every day (lousy travel agent). If by chance some plump Midwesterner grinds her ass into my crotch to the strained beats of some insipid Black Eyed Peas song, I'll say "I'm here for the weekend, too. Where ya stayin'?" Then I'll buy her an overpriced FruityTooty martini and she'll ditch me moments later. I can't wait. I might even drink slushy cheap-tequila margaritas from a novelty-sized plastic replica of the Sphinx.
Why do people who barely know me act like they're so sad to see me leave? A cashier at Home Depot practically begged me to stay and she never said more than "Good morning" to me in the months I've been aware of her existence. Does she secretly like me? I'll never know, because I don't plan on speaking to her again. Can't take the chance.
I shouldn't have mentioned the Black Eyed Peas. Just typing their name angers up my blood. They may be the worst musical group ever. The old gray mare who just won 'Idol' should join the Black Eyed Peas, creating a shitheap sound mosaic that could very well lead to the end of civilization as we know it. And on the last day in the history of Earth, as rivers boiled, mountains crumbled, and the undead roamed the contaminated soil feasting on the brains of the living, I'd finally meet the love of my life. Son of a bitch!