Failsafe.

4:30 am. In an hour I’m driving someone to the airport. About fourteen hours ago, I picked up someone else at the airport. Several days ago, I myself flew into this same airport and made my way home. Tomorrow night, I will be picking up person #1. The day after that, I may or may not be dropping off two wholly different people. Then the week after that, another potential pickup.

Essentially, I have voluntarily, if inadvertently, become a glorified airport chauffeur. Me and Portland International? We’re like THISSSSSSSSS.

Which is, you know. Not exactly a bad thing. Someday I shall make the rounds and collect on all these airport-ride debts. When all this fancy writing/drawing/returning-to-school stuff implodes and I find myself wandering the streets, I’ll be able to knock on door after door, bedraggled, disheveled, shopping cart in tow, and announce Hey. Hey YOU. Remember that time I gave you that ride to the airport? Yeah? Me too. Now give me some soup and let me live in your garage.

For the first time since… I don’t know. The end of February, maybe? I feel like myself again. In a good way.

I’m giving myself the weekend to finish getting things in order, finally organize all my crap, put my books away, get my room into a state where I actually want to be in it — a couple days to do all the stuff I’ve put off in the face of more pressing issues — and starting Monday, my life can ease back into gear and hopefully regain some semblance of forward motion.

Which is good, because the sooner I can get this show on the road, the sooner I can collect my soup and shelter.