Burning Bridges

I don't work at New Orleans Boutique Hotels anymore, and for sure never again.  I left in an ungraceful way, after constructing a house of lies so large that, should it fall, would trap me beneath it like the aftermath of an earthquake.  And then, from stage left, came an unexpected wrecking ball.

There is little need for specifics, except to state that I have simply stopped going.  I ran away, like a little boy trailing kerosene and lighting matches.  And yet, I am strangely ambivalent to the whole situation.  I certainly don't regret my stopping going.  God knows (as well as any reader of this blog) that I never wanted to go to begin with and, once I started going, I was wildly unhappy the entire time I was there.  And I don't regret my awkward exit-- I've made those before and with escapes like these there's no need for decorum...

No, instead I think I feel a little wistful regret for the loss of the nostalgic glow that covered my previous time there-- back before Jeana left, and everyone changed and I changed and became cold and indifferent and they became irritating and unbearable.  In the light of this departure, even the old memories from the before time have been tainted.  That is the only downside.

And the kerosene catches and the old trestle goes up in flames...

This happens too often.  Sometimes I feel like General Sherman marching to the sea.