Thursday, December 22, 2005

Merry Melodrama by Megan Crane

Some people look forward all year to December, when they can go home to visit their families.

(I don't know any of these people, but that's what they tell me on television, so it must be true.)

(The fact that all the people I know are drama queens might have something to do with this subjective analysis, I grant you)

I, however, traverse the country primarily so I can skulk about my hometown in a surly fashion, coming up with ever-more-exciting ways to depress myself. Trimming the tree, decking the hall, engaging in twenty-year-old squabbles, braving the mall parking lot, and eating all manner of Christmas cookies to the point of daily indigestion? Totally secondary.

My holiday routine is based on pain. The more angst, the better. I like to loiter near my high school, for example, and think of the eighteen year-old disaster I was when I escaped that place. That's always good for bringing the pain. I also like to drive in big loops around the outskirts of town, playing extremely dramatic music whilst staring out at the cold, barren landscape, shivering, and remembering the numerous things that broke my heart.

Now that I'm a legitimate writer-- or anyway, can prove my profession with a simple internet connection-- it's even worse. Because now I'm no longer wallowing or being histrionic. Now I'm working.

Here's the horrendous bar wherein my first love and I once quarreled terribly.

Here's the lake where I worked one long, hot, underpaid summer, while everyone else I knew from college was living the bright life in New York City and I was alone, alone, alone.

Here's the site of my first job, the unlucky company wherein I spent my boring days dreaming of greatness while racking up the long-distance phone bill.

Here's the building in which I suffered through the seventh and eighth grades; the building to which I should address my therapy bills.

Here's the junior high school staircase I once, famously, fell down-- five seconds after being unforgivably rude to a schoolmate, thus learning two very important concepts for the price of one: a) karma is, indeed, a bitch and b) you should listen to your mother because you never know when karma's going to get you and expose your ratty underwear for all to see.

All of which could be in a book someday, I tell everyone. You never know.

Wish me some Merry Melodrama, people. I've been back two days and I'm just getting going...

2 comments:

UrbanBarbarian said...

maybe I can stir up some new trauma to write about!

Megan Crane said...

I have no doubt you can.

It's like your special little gift...