t-minus 10 hours and 41 minutes until departure

This feels so right, packing things into bags, listening to classic rock, looking at things I had forgotten about, and of course, doing this all so late, just starting to pack right about an hour ago even though we are planning on leaving this town, hitting the American roads in less than twelve short hours with Bonnie, driving to DC to pick up my bike, see my mom, and maybe also to see some naked boys, then driving to Atlanta, before finally making our way towards what will be the conclusion of our little road trip, the town known as Sarasota, Florida.

I don't know how to interpret what just happened two minutes ago; what type of omen it could be read as; what it means for my future; what it will foreshadow about my departure, but I was on the phone in the hall, trying to call Nora, trying to postpone having to pack a little bit longer, and some thing was fluttering above my head and I thought that it was just some big bug, a fly or a moth or something. But then I ducked so I could look up at it, see what type of bug it was, and no, it was not a bug, not hardly - it was a motherfucking bat, a fairly decent sized one, fluttering about, confused in our hallway. Nora's machine picked up right then, she probably thought I was drunk or drugged out since I was flipping out about a bat. The bat then flew down the hallway away from me, only to turn around and fly right back towards my head to flutter about some more, before making its way down the hall again and fluttering out the window, out of my life, having delivered whatever message it was trying to.

I always pack listening to the classic rock stations because there is something so perfect about it, it is the most appropriate soundtrack for leaving - nostalgic yet rocking, looking towards the future, towards another Saturday night - it is almost too appropriate a soundtrack, almost too much (but just almost, not actually) because it allows you to envision your life as a movie too clearly, this is the big scene where you, where I, move on with our lives, we seperate, pack our belongings, our past lives into luggage from our moms, trash bags, whatever we can find, looking at old pictures, letters, and phone numbers written on bar napkins before putting it away, in either the trash or our luggage, and moving eagerly, excitedly towards what lies ahead, the future, walking fast like Mark Renton at the end ofTrainspotting with that bag of cash, off to do wonderful things, to live a new life.