Don't Call it a Farewell, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty

I’m not good at goodbyes

You can feel the tears queued up behind your eyes even when you talk to the pretty girl. That’s how you know it’s time to go.

Time to say goodbye at a goodbye party, but the two negatives don’t make a positive in this case.

You hurriedly put whatever distraction conversation you were having on the proverbial shelf, but you know it need not ever be resolved. Then you turn to find her, not to say goodbye, though.

Goodbyes are for suckers who don’t think they’ll ever see each other again. A healthy understanding of the ambiguity of the term “later” allows you to say “see you later” without much thought and without much remorse. It sets the table for the reunion.

But you don’t even say it. You just think it. The farewell moment is a long, tight hug. You don’t say a word, but not because the silence says it all. It’s because saying nothing deep down in your head allows you to suspend the disbelief for another night.

Now it’s the escape. Hurry to the door. Say bye to everyone else. Suddenly saying bye to them means absolutely nothing. It’s a cheap goodbye. You’ll see them all Monday and you’ll drink and you’ll bitch and complain about work, but she won’t be there. It doesn’t matter if you say goodbye to them at all, but all of a sudden it’s imperative that you do, just to prove that you can say it to someone.

Quick, easy strides to the car. It’s no longer a question of holding back tears. Just imagine how close you are to home, to your bed where you can finally let it all out. Cry into your pillow. Wake up and start worrying about work again.

The drive home proves to be a healthy distraction. Just turn on autopilot and let the subconscious take the wheel so you can shut the rest of your brain off. You’ve traveled this way hundreds, thousands of times before.

Fucking goddamn train. It breaks the monotony. Think about the implications. No more dancing. No more drinking. Now it’s hitting you.

Start thinking about the blog entry you’ll write. That’s how you’ll cope, huh? Write that lead in your head because we’re all really fucking impressed. You’re just distracting yourself again, just like you did two weeks ago when he left.

Not saying goodbye doesn’t make them not leave.

Don't Call it a Farewell, DRIVEN, Journalism, Uncategorized

It’s in the Vault: Tall tale

My long-term absence will be explained in a future post.

When I got started in journalism, it wasn’t because I wanted to be a journalist.

It was because I wasn’t good enough to play sports at school anymore, so I sought a way to stay connected to them any way I could. Daniel Ellis invited me to attend a sports section meeting with him, and from then, I was sold.

Which is surprising, since I started out in the undesirable beats – for instance, covering our volleyball team which was riding a conference losing streak of more than 30 games.

Of course, I love volleyball, so it wasn’t really a stretch to stay interested, but there was also the spandex and the tall females I got to talk to on a weekly basis…

Maybe it wasn’t surprising, but regardless, I wouldn’t allow myself to date any of them.

I say that now and pretend like I was being an objective journalist with integrity, but it’s only because I was too afraid of them rejecting me to even ask. Continue reading