I’m writing this whole post around a song I remembered existed today; 90s alt rock whaaat? I’m officially that old. Old enough to say I would throw all of my earthly possessions into a bonfire if it meant I could go back to the 90s. My town is crawling with spring breakers and will be until April. They are not dissimilar to the 17yr locusts that will soon be rising to the surface of the earth and swarming blindly, crazed and drunk on freedom. These are the days when I would kill to live in mid nowhere.

And I have an opportunity to do just that. Move 2000 miles away and do good, soul serving work, surrounded by sky. So why am I balking? Why does it feel like a sucker punch to the gut everytime I think about it? Fuck the vivid eloquence of my imagination; I can picture everything so clearly in theory-best and worst case scenarios so detailed they’re staggering. And I do this with every possible choice I have, over, and over, and over again ad infinitum. It’s stale. Boring. Exhausting. And I’m so over listening to my own voice whine about my privileged problems I could legit collapse.

I’m reading a memoir by an amazing woman, Christina Crosby; feminist, scholar and all around bad ass. Trying to find perspective and strength from our collective journeys through pain and uncertainty.

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