Good bye, room.

For all of your cubic spaciousness, for amber waves of pints, I will sorely miss you, my concucube. You are aware, of course, that just as I have you down -- having realized through trial and error your feng shui -- I may have to leave you for greener pastures.

I can only mean that figuratively, since where I'll be going...well let's just say, that place wouldn't be one millionth as green were it not for the trackless miles of cement culverts and metal diverters channeling billions of water from central California to that great metropolis of Los Angeles.

The concrete -- but verdant -- jungle of El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de la Porciúncula sits alone without me there. It is my town. The 213. Aortic freeways. Thousands of miles of tract homes. Select>edit>copy>paste>REPEAT a lot of times.

Sorry, my concucube of a room, I'm leaving with a heavy heart, but my chances will be better for everything down there. Better chance of seeing loved ones, better chance of finding the "her", better chance of being a victim of road rage, car theft, jacking, HIV, or meeting a Republican. Oh please God, please! Don't let me meet a Republican.

What a crazy notion. Not being in the Crewz, man! Gnarly! Politically correct sods.

Just for your information, this is not really the truth. This won't happen. It's not happening now ("it's all happening! it's all happening!" -- Penny Lane) It's a blog, you ding-dong. I'm supposed to muse here, and shit, I was beckoned by Los Angeles when I saw the L.A. Lakers on TV. It was against the Warriors. Wow, the 405 (everybody down there says THE in front of a freeway number; up here it's noticeable to everyone north of Point Conception, California. What a ramble. But as I was saying...

Ok, room. You recognize these sort of rants, right? You've been there. First hand accounts. Tangents galore. Venn Diagrams of thoughts, telephone conversations, or song lists I make on the fly to accompany my mood, taste, or musical musings. From now on, start ignoring these things as they happen in here, because I wouldn't want you to miss me when I'm gone. If you start now, then you'll forget about me. All one hundred and twenty-three years of you; I'm just one-third of that, but we've only been acquainted for no more than 2 years. FORGET ABOUT ME, room.