a million bubbles

It wasn't anything I'd planned on, but at the age of twenty-two, after dropping out of college and traveling back and fourth across the country a few times, I found myself back in Raleigh, NC, living in my parents basement.  After six months spent waking at noon, getting high and listening to the same Joni Mitchell record over and over again, my father called me in to his den and told me to get out. 

He was sitting very formally in a big comfortable chair behind his desk, and I felt as though he was firing me from the job of being his son.  I'd seen this coming and it honestly didn't bother me all that much. The way I saw it, being kicked out was just what I needed if I was ever going to get back on my feet

"Fine" I said. "I'll go.  But one day you'll be sorry." I had no idea what I meant by this. It just seemed like the sort of thing one should say when being told to leave.

My sister Lisa had an apartment over by the University and said that I could come stay with her if I didn't bring my Joni Mitchell record.  My mother offered to drive me over, and after a few bong hits, I took her up on it.

That is the first part of the David Sedaris essay, A Million Bubbles. I love it. You should go buy a bunch of his books and read them all over and over again.

He makes me feel normal in a totally good way.