On The Road

Goddamn.

So I just got back from a road trip halfway across the country in service of that little side-hustle called Art. Me and Trudie and The Cowboy had a gig at a contemporary art museum down south, so we took a couple of days to drive down, hung out in Athens for a couple of days, then curved up to our week-long residency before booking it back to Rust City in a straight 17-hour shot. With the three of us plus the whole show packed inside Sugar Magnolia, we were on the road for a while there.

When we crammed ourselves back in for the return trip, I realized I wanted to stay on the road.

For the Record

I haven't gotten any better. I've just gotten better at faking it.

I'm not like this. Folks who really know me know that I'm not like this. But to all the rest--and really, that's most of the folks out there--I could be like this. I may not be like this, but someone is like this. For all they know, I could very well be a regular person going through her regular day the way she regularly does. I could be a regular person.

As long as they're not peeping into the Gingerbread Cottage, that is. As long as they don't see that the place is trashed, just one big pile of unopened mail and dirty laundry and dirty dishes from mid-November. As long as they can't look in to see me curled up in the bed all day (or all two days or all three days or four days), only getting out of bed to pee or feed the cats or get a new box of tissues once I've run out. As long as they can't hear me talking to myself, trying to find some loophole in the logic of the universe and some how make things different, make things better. For Mr. Badger. For me.