I’m flying back to Atlanta tomorrow for a hit and run trip, mainly to check on the house and to grab a couple of things I had to leave behind because they didn’t fit in the car during the great exodus. I’m kind of depressed and slack about it. You’d think that a weekend back would be fun and I could make something out of it, see my friends, etc. In fact, I’ve done nothing, talked to no one. I don’t really want to go, but I must to check on the house, meet with a realtor and do responsible grownup stuff. I’m staying through Monday and taking the very first flight out that morning, and should be home by 9 AM in order to start my workday.
I’m not sure why I’ve been such a foot dragger about it all. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like very little good came of the last stint in Atlanta and going back holds nothing good for me. I wish our house would just sell so we could cut ties, forget about the place and move on. I want it out of my life.