No Logic, No Plan, No Worries

I’m moving, and it’s weird to tell you that because odds are the only person who cares is the one who keeps searching “where does vagina drum live?” in order to find my site and apparently, my address. I guess I should be kind of unsettled from seeing that keyword search pop up almost every day in Google Analytics, but my appreciation for unhealthy perseverance ultimately outweighs my fear of the possibility that someone out there will try to kill Will Smith in order to impress me.

So, to answer your question, John Hinckley Jr: I live in Florida. I feel safe in sharing that because it won’t be true in two months, and plus, I’m confident that the fact that there are at least 16 rebel flags and 3 teeth for every 6 people (these are real figures) in Florida will make anyone want to kill themselves before they even have a chance to get to me.

The decision to move was made a little over a year ago, when my boyfriend and I could only claim a 3 month relationship. The conversation to actually start living a life we both wanted happened in Chili’s, over BBQ bacon burgers, which I understand seems incongruous because people who want to do shit with their lives rarely try to end them prematurely with four pounds of meat. I don’t remember how the topic of conversation started, but I do remember being apprehensive about sharing life goals with someone who, at the time, was probably more interested in Garth Brooks’ alter ego Chris Gaines than he was with me, while casually mentioning to him that “Maybe, you know, it would be kind of cool if you came along. Whatever. I don’t really care, I mean it’s no big deal. I think I’m busy that night anyway.” Granted, I didn’t have much of a plan at the time, because I was just getting used to a life with options after years of acclimating myself to eating my weight in biscuit sandwiches, but I knew at the very least that I didn’t want to be in Florida anymore and would prefer a location change to the Pacific Northwest. He happened to agree and from there, we tip-toed through the awkward situation of wanting to have some sort of future together, while being careful not to be too invested or insane. This means that I never tricked him into going wedding dress shopping just for fun and he didn’t try to knock me up, claiming that it would “bring us together.”

Eventually, we both got comfortable with the idea of having one another around and just naturally began to launch into conversations about money, employment, and housing. Eating at home and relying on entertainment from the raccoons that occupy a nearby dumpster allowed us to save enough money to survive for 6 months. We’re completely skipping the job hunt and instead, are opting to put our respective testicles out on the table and attempt to survive on freelance work (for me, that means writing for church bulletin boards if it comes to it). Housing will have to figure itself out when we get there, but I’m optimistic that there will be a nice bridge or abandoned teen center to claim as our own.

To be honest, the idea of packing up my life, driving across the country, and doing it all so I can be glamorously unemployed gives me a heart attack. But to be fair, it all started that way with three strips of thick-cut bacon rubbed with brown sugar and smoked to perfection so I guess that means that I’m doing something right.

Google Analytics meat my life should have training wheels please don't stalk me but if you do at least bring me a sandwich relationships respective testicles