Welcome Home
"That's so cute!" I exclaim, accepting the contact information from the raccoon, who is in a full fursuit. The contact information he gave me is on a small gray piece of paper, now folded into a small origami raccoon, complete with a stripe across the eyes. Like I said, it's extremely cute. And very clever. I love this kind of creativity.
"I'm so glad I met you," I tell him. There's an awkward pause, then I hug my new friend goodbye. We walk down the hall, side by side, me towards my car, and him towards the lobby. He's intercepted by a group of fursuiters and a photographer. I look back. He's busy interacting with the others now, and facing the opposite direction. A little sadly, I capture the scene in my head and continue walking down the long hallway alone.
I hear Propane Nightmares, by Pendulum, playing loudly from the ballroom, and I pause at the double doors to look back in the room I've spent dancing the night away for the last three days. I recognize about half the people now, and I see many glowstringers spinning familiar moves and styles I've come to associate to them individually. I don't even know half their names, but I know the way they glowstring. Fursuiters dance with each other in the center in an array of lights, colours, and flashes. Raving is not my usual scene, but somehow, looking into the room, I feel like I'm leaving behind a familiar, comfortable world that's only just come into existence, and now I'm forced to leave it behind as it continues without me.
I continue down the hall and exit into the silent night. Crossing the street, I pass by a group of mundanes. The difference between them and the furs I just left is tangible. While before I was smiling at people I didn't even know, dancing with dozens of strangers, and being more open and social than I ever have before, I now awkwardly cross my arms in front of me, hiding my badge. I don't want to get into the explanation conversation right now.
I get in my car, carefully put the origami raccoon on my dashboard and pull out of the parking lot.
The drive home is slow, and I'm distracted, feeling like the world isn't exactly real anymore. I make a wrong turn and have to drive a couple of miles before I can turn around and head west instead of east.
For a while, I try to pretend I'm driving TO the con instead of from it. It doesn't quite work, but my mind begins replaying the events of the con.
There's a traffic jam due to construction, but I barely notice it. I'm still thinking, remembering what had only just ended. I feel like I'm still there, but it also feels like it was forever ago.
When I get home, I open the door to find both my cats waiting.
"You're home! We missed you!" cries Myshkin.
"You're home! Feed me!" cries Zip.
I refill their bowls. Zip rushes to eat. Myshkin, on the other hand, totally ignores the food - despite the fact he's probably hungry since they probably ate most of their food on the first few days and the person I asked to check on them apparently didn't. Instead of eating, Myshkin happily purrs and rubs up against me.
"I missed you. Welcome home."
Welcome home. It's sort of been a theme in the con, and now after. It's something I'm going to write about - but not now. I need sleep.
"I'm so glad I met you," I tell him. There's an awkward pause, then I hug my new friend goodbye. We walk down the hall, side by side, me towards my car, and him towards the lobby. He's intercepted by a group of fursuiters and a photographer. I look back. He's busy interacting with the others now, and facing the opposite direction. A little sadly, I capture the scene in my head and continue walking down the long hallway alone.
I hear Propane Nightmares, by Pendulum, playing loudly from the ballroom, and I pause at the double doors to look back in the room I've spent dancing the night away for the last three days. I recognize about half the people now, and I see many glowstringers spinning familiar moves and styles I've come to associate to them individually. I don't even know half their names, but I know the way they glowstring. Fursuiters dance with each other in the center in an array of lights, colours, and flashes. Raving is not my usual scene, but somehow, looking into the room, I feel like I'm leaving behind a familiar, comfortable world that's only just come into existence, and now I'm forced to leave it behind as it continues without me.
I continue down the hall and exit into the silent night. Crossing the street, I pass by a group of mundanes. The difference between them and the furs I just left is tangible. While before I was smiling at people I didn't even know, dancing with dozens of strangers, and being more open and social than I ever have before, I now awkwardly cross my arms in front of me, hiding my badge. I don't want to get into the explanation conversation right now.
I get in my car, carefully put the origami raccoon on my dashboard and pull out of the parking lot.
The drive home is slow, and I'm distracted, feeling like the world isn't exactly real anymore. I make a wrong turn and have to drive a couple of miles before I can turn around and head west instead of east.
For a while, I try to pretend I'm driving TO the con instead of from it. It doesn't quite work, but my mind begins replaying the events of the con.
There's a traffic jam due to construction, but I barely notice it. I'm still thinking, remembering what had only just ended. I feel like I'm still there, but it also feels like it was forever ago.
When I get home, I open the door to find both my cats waiting.
"You're home! We missed you!" cries Myshkin.
"You're home! Feed me!" cries Zip.
I refill their bowls. Zip rushes to eat. Myshkin, on the other hand, totally ignores the food - despite the fact he's probably hungry since they probably ate most of their food on the first few days and the person I asked to check on them apparently didn't. Instead of eating, Myshkin happily purrs and rubs up against me.
"I missed you. Welcome home."
Welcome home. It's sort of been a theme in the con, and now after. It's something I'm going to write about - but not now. I need sleep.