Happy New Year to me

Lately, I've been suffering from a good dose of self-sympathy, and frankly, I'd like to kick myself in the posterior. I don't know whether it's turning 35, the new year, or (more likely) the general dissatisfaction with what I have (not) done with my life. For all the anger and the sublimated rage, the frustration and the sense of failure, I know that one person bears the ultimate responsibility for this: my mother.
Damn, it would be so easy if I could lay all of my insecurities at her feet, but last time I checked, I did have choices in the matter (no matter how much her-- and others-- have tried to influence those choices, it all comes down to me).
So after three days of tears and ranting inwardly about how trapped I felt, I decided to just leave. Leave town, leave people, leave Andrea. I'm not one for chemical escape, so I took a train to New York and walked around for about five hours (from Times Square to the Village/SoHo and back to Grand Central), watching, listening, and writing. Back to being Prufrock.
Of course, it wasn't an unfettered foray... G, upon learning of my plans, came with. Something about worrying about me becoming a "statistic" of NYC crime.
Forget the saying "you can't go home again." I think I'm attached to a bungee umbilical cord: I can't leave home at all.