eight days

Eight days until what, you might ask. Eight days until the apocalypse? The end of the fictitious gas crisis? This string of seemingly meaningless questions?

Eight days until I go home. Home, to humidity, flat interstate, mosquitos the size of Buicks, and the best damned food I've ever put in my mouth. I had lunch with one of my friends today - he's from the Carolinas (which some might consider part of the South) and we were talking about how the more time we spend on the eastern seaboard, the more we want to move back home. Where people are nice, land prices are low, and no one looks at you funny when you say you're going to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving. People don't scoff when you tell them that you can't go out because college ball is on TV, or that you're absolutely dying for some fresh catfish. (FYI, here in the north, they sell catfish under the guise of an exotic fish. Boy are those yankees stupid. There is nothing exotic about those ugly things other than the spices you fry them in.)
Home where I can twang if I want to and no one looks at me with the slanty glance. I'm so sick of being nice to rude people, even though it's what my momma taught me to do, instead of turning around to them and saying, "well, I could say something like that, if I was a Yankee jackass like you, but I'm from the South and we know how to treat people, even if they don't deserve it." Even the rude people in Mississippi are nicer than polite Bostonians. Do I want my kids to grow up thinking it's okay to not hold doors open for people who are carrying bags or offering to help someone with their exceptionally large suitcase up the stairs? Not a chance my friends. Just you wait, as soon as this blasted doctorate is over, we're packing up, throwing the dog in the car, and skee-daddling back your way.

Eight days till drive-thru daiquiris and po-boys from the truck stop. Eight days till "y'all" is normal parlance again. Eight days till fresh seafood and all the cousins I can hug in one day.
Can't wait to see all y'all.