FREE AT LAST!!!!!!!

Halelujah, I’m free at last!!!!!

From debt, that is.  It feels so good.  I don’t know how people go long periods of time with huge amounts owed to school or hospitals; I felt like it was looming over me this entire time.  I felt almost criminal not paying it, like everything I bought was just borrowed and everything I earned was really for someone else. When the Bible talks about the borrower being servant to the lender, this is what it means.

And if you’ve ever lent a friend or family member money, you know first hand how the dichotomy of the relationship changes. To avoid the resentment, bitterness and awkwardness that usually follows, I’ve made a point of not loaning money anymore.  If I pay anything for a friend, that’s it; its a gift.  I’d rather lose money than a friend.

I know my debt was miniscule in comparison to so many others struggling with debt in America, so if you’ like to be inspired by someone truly tackling their debt and dealing with finances in a mature, Godly, and gazelle-intense way, check out my friends Brian and Stephanie’s new blog, The Debt Free Adams Family.  These guys are newly married and awesome, and I’m certainly looking forward to keeping up with them along their journey to financial freedom. Encourage them, friends, and when they’ve paid this debt off by Steph’s birthday next year, lets celebrate with them.

On work ethic and margaritas

Happy Margarita Monday, friends!

I apologize in advance for typos. :/

I wanted to explain why, though it was a slow and trying day at work, I ain’t mad.  See, tips were sub-par and I even had the serving nightmare of a table exiting the building sans payment.

They cost me $20.13, plus whatever 4% of that is (which I tip-out to the bussers, AKA the most important men in my life.)

Anyway, I wanted to tell you, over homemade margaritas we decided to dose with more tequila (because, God love her, Steph makes such a cute margo) why I’m not upset about this shitty day.  It has very little to do with MGMT radio on Pandora and the alcohol.  It actually has to to with integrity.

See, I like, when I get a shit tip, to recount the entirety of the party’s meal and judge whether or not I earned their pathetic 10%.  If I can replay the greeting, the order-taking, the meal presentation, the coffee refills and the check-dropping, and see that their experience was not found (legitimately) wanting, then I can accept that shit tip and carry my pony-tailed head high.  If I haven’t earned a person’s ill-will, I feel fine with their two dollars on twenty-five.  They’re either clueless or assholes, so who cares?  If I’ve earned it, I’ve no right to complain anyway.

I work very hard.  I genuinely want my restaurant’s guests to enjoy themselves and to be satisfied.  I don’t only recommend the pricey items.  I cater to their neediness, as if they’re my only table and I’m not running on five hours of fitful sleep and caffeine.  I read once that “work” is “a productive interaction with His creation that provides for our families and allows us to use the personal gifts that God has given us.”  I read this in the back of the free bible a church in California gave me a few years ago.  While I’m only providing for myself and my dog, and not necessarily using the “gifts” God has given me (and what are they, anyway?) in my work life, I sure as hell ought to use the grace, interest, and affection he’s bestowed upon me with my customers.  They ought to enjoy being served by me.  I am personally cherished by the creator of the universe; how dare I not engage with my customers in the same, individual way?

This brings me back to my conviction about bad tips.  More-so my attitude about them.  If I’m a shitty server I deserve bad tips and have no grounds to stand on to complain.  However, if I am a friggin awesome server and still get a shit tip (or, you know, a twenty-dollar stiff), I still have no ground to complain on.  I did my best, ok?  I did everything I could.  I was multi-tasking.  I was distracted.  I still remembered your refill.

All this to say…I don’t feel bad about this wretched day.  I feel like this.

Hope your weekend was awesome and you’re feeling patriotic.  Be nice to your waitress.

Cheers.

 

Babe.

I foreshadowed this post yesterday and am actually very curious to hear your perspective at the end of it.  I want to clarify some things right off the bat, however.  One; I like being a woman.  I like wearing pretty earrings, I like being relationship-focussed, I even like that I cry during sentimental commercials.  Two; I like men.  I don’t think they’re bad or ignorant or trying to repress me.  I even want to spend the rest of my life living with, and loving, a man.
Three, I wear a bra*.

This being said…I effing hate being a woman sometimes!!!!!!  Let me explain.

The other day I was eating with a coworker, the expeditor, and he let me know that one of the cooks (who’s since been fired for reasons unknown) used to tell everyone at work that he and I were hooking up.  He had pictures to “prove” it.  Those pictures were actually from the night we of the restaurant were all really defiant and went out for sushi together.  My big brother was with us, in fact.  The cook in question took heaps of pictures.  Of me.

I blew it off, like “good riddance to that creep”, and went on with my day.  The day following, at the coffee shop next to work, a gentleman approached me to ask if he’d done anything to upset me.  This gentleman is in his late fifties or early sixties and is on the same bus route as I, and he wants to be a writer.  (He’s also kinda a conspiracy theorist and won’t let a paper publish his articles for free.) Anyway, we used to talk about writing, politics, riding the bus, etc. and I accidentally gave him my email.  It was an accident! I’d meant to give him this blog domain but my hand wrote out the email on default.  (Yes, he has this blog domain too, so he’s probs reading this.  I don’t care.)

He had promptly sent an email, in which he described what kindred spirits we were and referred to me as a “babe”.

Babe.

I didn’t respond.  Didn’t know how to.  I’m not good at conflict I don’t initiate, so I went all Scarlet O’hara and resolved to think about it tomorrow.

I’d pulled back from our quirky friendship and this is what he was referring to at the coffee shop the other day.  I explained that I was uncomfortable with his use of the word “babe” and that I don’t engage in close friendships with men.  He swore that while he thought about sex “probably every hour”, he only wanted my friendship.

I nodded.

This sent me on a two-day lament on the frustration of being female.  I resent being a woman because

  1. Don’t let them fool you, its all about your body.   Your weight-loss or gain is noticed.  Your breast size and ass oomph is noted.  If you have a pimple, you’re expected to cover it up.  As a young American woman, the worst thing you can possibly do is not be hot.  People despise ugly women.
  2.  If you’re nice, as my coworker Rafa explained, men think, “Oh, she wants to have sex with me.”  You, men, make us be mean.  We’re not mean because we’re bitches, we’re mean because we’re protecting ourselves.  And in Jesus-loving cultures, we’re standoffish or even rude because the burden of protecting our hearts and yours falls on us.
  3. I’m not tipped as well when I don’t wear makeup.

Appearance.  Sex appeal.  Being nice.  I’m sick of catcalls.

The worst thing is, being catcalled beats the alternative of not being desired.  Women are faced with this crippling paradox every time we get dressed, every time we eat, every time we decide whether or not to smile back at someone.  We want to be desired and we want our personal space respected.  We want to be treated as human beings.  We want to be pretty.  We want to be the girl in the song, but we also want to just be another person.

This is coming dangerously close to a vent, so I’ll hush up.  I have no resolution.

Girls, here’s some tips, though, on how to avoid being objectified;

  1. 1. Don’t dress like a porn star.  You don’t want to be jeered at, catcalled, “misunderstood”? Don’t dress like a man’s wet dream and he has no right to treat you like it.
  2.  Don’t purposefully arouse desires in a man you have no intention of fulfilling.  There’s a fine line between innocent flirting and being a little tease.  And I think the line is just before the eyelash batting.
  3.  Don’t put up with “hey sexy’s” from men you work with.  Tell them to knock it off.
  4. Have a personality.  If you’re a real person and not a pretty little space-filler, men are less likely to be assholes.
  5. Have girl friends.  Hang out with your ladies and encourage each other to be human beings.  I have a hard time making and retaining solid girl friends, I think because I used to be that girl who was all competitive and distrustful.  However, I’ve learned other women are the most valuable asset in dealing with a world that isn’t always very kind to women.  To do this, girls, you need to stop being competitive and jealous and just enjoy your friends.  Build each other up, encourage good behavior, kindly tell each other when you’re dressed like a ho.
  6. Finally, don’t discourage casual friendships with guys.  You have a lot to learn from them, and they have a lot to learn from you, and both parties are blessed by friendships with one another.  These guys probably aren’t to be your BFFs (there are exceptions), but FFs are totally fine.

That’s what I’ve got so far.  Anything to contribute to the list would be greatly appreciated.

On a final note, do you want to know my favorite thing about the email situation? Upon confrontation my old buddy explained that he hadn’t meant “babe” in the way that “other men do”.  He wasn’t objectifying me.  He’d meant I was an “interesting, intelligent and studious young woman.”


*Not to sleep, because ewe, who does that?

Publicly eyed

Welp, CST is publishing round two of my Aussie Adventures.  I feel like if I wasn’t so tired form work and wrestling with things (things being the charismatic movement, the burden of being female, etc. etc.) I’d be ecstatic.  Instead I’m relatively subdued.  Pleased, but subdued.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also thinking about being “public”.  If some Scottsdalian reads CST, finds my little Aussie quip interesting, and finds this here blog, how much of what’s up here reflects on the newspaper that so generously lets me learn the writing business from them?  And what if the Jr Highers I used to mentor at church find it? Will they be disappointed, or will they be glad?  Do I actually want to be public?

And if I can’t “be public” with my life…what kind of life am I living?  Eek.

I should probably grow up a bit, clean up my language a bit, and get on a posting schedule.  My intentions were so awesome in January, I’ve just gotten…lazy?  Lazy.  What a gross word.  Ugh, sloppy is even worse.

Anyway, sorz for the lack of entertainment and information the last two months.  I’m boring myself to tears just thinking about it.

And I’m pinky-promising to post thoughts on the spiritually weird and the annoyace of being a girl.  In the meantime, enjoy this piece on not joining the vegan cult;  http://www.carpevegan.com/?page_id=352

I’m being serious; it rocked my world.

Lovin’ you, faithful reader.

P.S. My disaster of the day was when I set a tray on the stand, lifted a plate from one end, the the entire thing crashed onto the restaurant floor.  Plates shattered, baby wailing, yours truly awkwardly trying to joke.  “Hey, you’re awake now! No coffee refill necessary!”  #gerdamnit

Quit being a wussy.

margaritas^Being attractive.

I’ve decided to quit being a wussy and come back to the blogosphere.

There’s only so long a person can go wallowing in disillusionment of Self and blogger’s block.  Life is still interesting, it is still good, and we’ve got stories to tell, so I’m back.

“Heeeeeeeere’s Johnny!”

^That’s how I feel.

And, hello, what’s the use of going through realizations and learning experiences if you’re going to play like its not happening?  And then there’s the trouble of wanting to explain something no one explained to me, like credit cards and insurance in foreign countries, but I can’t very well pretend I didn’t make this Beatles Farewell Tour of a last post and move on all nonchalant.

So here we are.  I just wanted you to know I’m still around, still figuring out food, relationships, how to travel (and if its ok to travel for fun), God-stuff, etc.

The past couple weeks have involved neglecting my worshipful dog, humming M.I.A’s Paper Planes all day at work, Margarita Mondays (and Wednesdays, and what’s wrong with Thursdays?) re-discovering the Psalms, and paying off half my debt*.  There’s been much psychoanalysis (mostly thanks to my brother, who’s tripping at his own self-realizations) and much Justified watched. I’m officially visiting my newlywed friends in Nebraska in September and my brother and friend are officially visiting me in a couple weeks.

And work? Its not as crazy as it used to be, and judging by my schedule (I open every day I work…like a pro…which causes me to realize I am their 2nd longest-running employee these days) I am loved and needed.  Woop woop!

Consider yourself updated.

On a sidenote, remember disasters?  I had a disaster riding my bike home from Safeway the other day; I crashed into a pole, shattering the glass olive oil bottle and eliciting laughter from the guys at the bus stop.  I was cool though.  I finished the ride home, returned for the oily shards of glass, and pouted at Safeway.  Safeway has the best customer service ever and got me another bottle, which I did not shatter on the way home.  How ’bout them apples for entertainment?!?!

*Fist pump!

Soul-work

Hey guys,

please excuse the Quiet for the next little bit.  I think its finally sinking in that I’m back in America and in debt for the foreseeable future, and I’m having a rough time adjusting.  Its not surreal anymore, its just kind’ve a sad detachment, which is why the past few posts have been shit writing.  And I’m realizing sad things, like how I’m still selfish and still take advantage of others, how I’m so stubborn I embarrass the ones I love, and how I’m actually only vegan because it “saves” me from that pesky old eating disorder.

In lieu of the soul-work and stillness I’m craving, I am not going to post anything here until I have something of value to say.

Cheers.

What I’m eating these days

After paying rent and getting my Savings account in check, I went out and invested in twenty-four pint-sized mason jars, some sprouted quinoa, various veggies, bulk legumes,  and the “supplies” necessary to brew my own kombucha.

The kombucha is the big splurge; a bottle at the store runs form $2.99 (at Safeway) to $3.99 (at AJs), and the stuff is addicting. If you’ve never tried the effervescent nectar of the gods, you must.  I recommend you try GT Dave’s “Trilogy”, as its juicier than, say, the Original.  Kombucha is a fermented tea with millions of probiotic microorganism awesomes hanging out inside.  People swear by kombucha’s “healing” properties.  I won’t go so far, however, when I’m drinking kombucha consistently I do fancy myself feeling better.

Drinking kombucha consistently means spending three to four dollars every other day or so, and that, friends, is not feasible for me.  I want to spend my money wisely, and while I’m into investing in oneself, I’m not into waste.  Especially if there’s a better way.

The better way here is brewing my own kombucha, so with this woman’s step-by-step plan, I’ve begun the SCOBY-growing process!

When I imagine what being “home” is like, I imagine my dog lounging somewhere, chickens strutting around outside, a veggie garden, and kombucha fermenting in my pantry.

Two down, right?

So that’s that.

The food I invested in is just that; an investment.  Your diet affects the way you feel and think, which affects he way you interact with and experience the world. The way you treat the machine, my old man was fond of saying, is the way the machine will treat you.  I soaked black beans last night, froze half the soaked beans, and simmered the other half for two hours this arvo.  I sauteed onions, mushrooms, and bell peppers with garlic in coconut oil and steamed some broccoli.  And that Tru Roots Sprouted Quinoa Trio I splurged on? I made that, and threw everything together in a huge pot.  That’s what I’m eating these days.

And I’m storing the remainder in portion-perfect mason jars, along with the cut veggies I didn’t use tonight.  This way my lazy ass can just plop everything together in a pot without even thinking, and ten minutes later I’ll have a meal!  And look how prettay this all looks!

I wanna hash-tag this as gettingstokedabouthealthfulliving.

Bon appetit!

BrewingSoonThe suppliesCompletionStorage

A cynic hops on the bandwagon.

Or, why I am an (almost) official Arbonne consultant.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m a gluten-intolerant vegan with budget and time constraints, and I intend to travel a good many places and help people along the way.  I’m a huge believer in Chris Guillebeau’s main blog premise;

You don’t have to live your life the way other people expect you to. You can do good things for yourself and for other people at the same time.

I want a vibrant life and believe vibrancy and service are not mutually exclusive.  We can be happy and helpful.

I also believe in not ravaging the world He so lovingly created. I don’t believe the command to “subdue” the Earth meant abuse, genetically modify, and disregard the animals here.  Or the environment at large.  I believe everything ought to be treated according to its kind, and I’m learning how to live consistently with these truths.

This matters for are cosmetic products, for the food we eat, for the way we commute to work, etc.  It matters whether or not are eye-shadow was poured into animals eyes before being put onto the shelves, and it matters where the packaging for our protein shakes wind up when we’re through.

My friend Lisa is an Arbonne consultant, meaning she joined Arbonne and now goes around coaching people on the toxins in our everyday products and how to live healthfully.  She’s been my supplier of free Arbonne awesomeness for almost a year, be it the gluten-free, vegan protein shakes or the miracle night cream I use that makes it look like I’m well-rested at work.

Arbonne products are 100% vegan, gluten-free, plant-based, and actually have a neutral carbon footprint.

Lisa has been trying to convince me I could make a living doing what she does, but I am a cynic and I am lazy, and kept telling her no and waiting until she offered more samples.  I love this stuff; the idea of selling it though seemed like a scam.  Or kind’ve a sell-out.

Long story short, I came home from Australia with a new-found appreciation of quality products.  I don’t want to hurt anything, not in the makeup I wear or the food I eat.  I found my mom’s old stock of Arbonne energy fizzy tabs, pocketed them, and brought them to Arizona and live off of them at work. (Sorz mom.)  Lisa is an amazing person and, upon hearing of my destitute self sleeping on my new roommate’s couch and wearing the same rotation of clothes every other day, pooled her resources and got her friends to donate clothes, bedsheets, a lamp, kitchen supplies, etc.  She brought everything over, along with (bless her heart) Arbonne samples, and it got me thinking.

It got me thinking that, hey, Arbonne is a legitimate company.  All organic and certified vegan, PH-correct and delicious.  And like I said, I’ve been a closet-user for a year.

All this to say…hey friends, I’m starting a business!  I’m going to be coaching whomever in the health and wellness department (Nutrition Communications is a degree at ASU!!!) and incorporating Arbonne products in my quest to better the world.

And, lets face it, making money on the side is not a negative thing. Especially since I would continue making money even whilst traveling abroad.

Friends, this is a company I genuinely believe in and am excited to share with you.  I’ll post links so that you, dear reader, may shop Arbonne online and see what I mean.  Also, contact me if you’re curious about a product and I’ll send you a sample.   And if you want to make some money on the side (because like, who doesn’t?) don’t hesitate to contact me. Arbonne has something for everyone; men, women and children, and its all the best quality possible.

I’m just getting started, so bear with me. I haven’t officially signed up yet (because you make more money signing up with a few friends!) but when I do, I’ll share more info about it all.  Also, if you have any advice, I’d love to hear it.

Bandwagon…sheesh.  I’ll be driving this wagon in no time. ;)

On another note, CST published part one of my Australia/wwoof memoir!  Woohoo!!!  Page 38.

http://news.citysuntimes.com/

 

Post-edit

*I’m not 100% sold. I’m reading other consultant’s experiences and trying to make an informed decision. Just…fyi. I haven’t downed the cool-ade quite yet.

Fossil Creek

 

My potential new roommate, her brother, and I went spur-of-the-moment to Fossil Creek yesterday.

Fossil Creek is amazing. I don’t know how I’ve lived in Arizona the past eight years and not experienced it. It’s near Strawberry and Payson, and you drive on this dirt road and park up at the top of this desert/forest mountain to start. I’m not used to that; I usually hike up to a destination and down, exhausted, to the car.  Fossil Creek tricks you.

It took about an hour and fifteen to get down the mountain, poor Kira running from one shady spot to another. The trail comes down to an oasis, where a couple people stop and just play in the creek there.

Don’t just stop and play in the creek there.

It gets so much better! We walked another fifteen minutes or so and came to a waterfall, where other twenty-somethings were throwing themselves over into the churning water beneath and then floating to a boulder.  I carried Kira to the other side since the current was too strong, and oohed and ahhed at the waterfall.

The Potential New Roommate and her brother were at the top of the fall getting ready to jump in. I’d already pardoned myself for not jumping; I hadn’t brought a swim suit, I wanted to stay with Kira, blah blah blah.  However, watching the PNR and her brother up there, encouraging her to jump, wasting my camera battery keeping it poised for the moment of truth…I knew I had to do it.

Its not that I feel like I have something to prove, or I want to be a badass and jump off waterfalls.  I just need to do these things, for me.

When I was a little kid we went to a beach in California where elephant seals migrated to every year. They beached themselves on the shore to have their babies, fight each other, and mate. No particular order. The first time we discovered this, my family did the whole “no trespassing sign? What no trespassing sign?” thing and hung out on the beach, feet away from these massive animals.  My dad even got my brothers to sneak up and touch the things.  He tried to get me to do it, but I was, like, six, (and wise!) and wouldn’t do it.  We left that afternoon and I remember feeling sick to my stomach with regret; I should’ve touched one of the seal’s tails. My dad would’ve protected me! I would’ve been fine! My four-year-old baby brother did it!  I burst into tears and begged to go back, but we were too far.  And the rest of migration season we couldn’t make it back.

Finally, the next year, we made the drive and I determined to touch a flipping elephant seal.

Do you know what’s coming? Are you already disappointed? Ugh, I am just telling you about it.  We arrived at the beach and, lo and behold, there was a fence and a park ranger patrolling that fence.  There was no way to get around him and his khaki shorts.  Every year thereafter there were khakis and that damned fence, and I will probably never get another opportunity to touch an elephant seal.

All this to say, I found a stranger to hold Kira’s collar and I propelled myself off the waterfall.  Twice.

It was terrifying standing up there! It was exhilarating to free-fall.  It was fulfilling to float with the current to the boulder everyone was chilling on.

I was congratulated and then shown this massive cave in the water, with another cave under the water in the big cave.  We’re planning on returning with goggles and more snacks (adrenaline apparently makes you hungry like the wolf), and a completely charged camera battery.

You need to check this place out! Fossil Creek is amazing, a little known heaven away from the crowds of easier-to-get to play areas.  As PNR’s brother observed, there were no whiny kids running around* or jerks leaving their garbage everywhere.

We even found a tarantula on the way out. For the win!

*Um, when I bring my children here they won’t be whiny.  Pinky-promise.

America; the Southerly regions.

Got this burning, burning, yearning feeling inside me.

I want to go to South America.

Two days ago I was melancholy thinking about it, because is there anything more selfish than traveling?  And yes, I realize this is the same ground I’ve trodden and crawled over and examined before, but it resurfaces every time wanderlust gets the better of me.

“Wanderlust is not passion for travel exactly; its something more animal and fickle – something more like lust.”
-Elizabeth Eaves
Wanderlust; a love affair with five continents.

“Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one’s own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live. There is in men, as Peter Quennell said, “a centrifugal tendency.” In our wanderlust, we are lovers looking for consummation.”   
-Anatole Broyard

My melancholy is for this; traveling has virtually no “kingdom value”; its not explicitly blessing other people and the intentions for it are entirely self-centered; I want to see the world. I want to experience other cultures. I’m going to spend this money on my adventure.  Even I want to learn is selfish.

Then I realized, hello, do like all my friends do and volunteer abroad!! I started googling volunteer opportunities in Peru, Ecuador, Brazil, etc. Orphans, widows, wildlife, oh my!  I even, to my shame, looked into short-term missions trips.

This didn’t last very long because my conscience won’t allow it.

For one thing, I don’t believe in short-term missions trips. And neither do the real missionaries. Sure, we of the white western descent love to serve the less fortunate. Every summer you can see the suburban missionaries parade into Mexico, Argentina, Belize, etc. with their kids’ crafts and their Jesus stickers, leaving in their wake some good memories, emotional highs/lows, and a quiet dependence. We the Fortunate bring home good memories, emotional highs/lows, and lessons learned. We may even carry along a gnawing feeling that our missional vacation didn’t actually do any lasting good.  Maybe we’re the only ones who benefited from it.

Plus, all that money raised and spent on our “life-changing” mission trips could fund a real missionary’s family for months, possibly the whole year.

Check out; http://www.theveryworstmissionary.com/2011/09/using-your-poor-kid-to-teach-my-rich.html

Enough on that for now.

The second reason I despaired over my voluntourism ideas is because its just that – voluntourism. Its simply a way for me to go do my selfish traveling and feel justified in doing so. “Its for a cause”, I whine. It would just be a way for me to feel good about myself, maybe a bit self-righteous too.  Its not that I actually care about people; I just don’t want to feel guilty.

The revelation of which caused more despair, and I threw myself onto the couch.

“Woe is despicable me!”

Also, I don’t believe our volunteer efforts do much good.  We ought to be empowering and building community from the inside out, not strutting in and laying out the blueprints.  We usually ought to not do for the poor what they can (and should) do for themselves. Check out http://www.whenhelpinghurts.org/

I’m reading the book and it is blowing my mind.

So where does one turn? What does one do?

We’re supposed to live in service to others, as blessings to others, and point them away from ourselves and to the Lord.  So how?  And what do you do with wanderlust?

So I phoned a friend.  That friend being, of course, my father, who quoted Slingblade at me (“That Frank, he lives inside of his own heart. That’s an awful big place to live in.”) and told me to just go to South America for kicks and giggles.

Not that my dad is the authority on all things moral, but it’s nice to have parents who are encouraging.  Even if they’re encouraging a directionless, experience-grasping existence. ;)

In all seriousness though, how do you feel about traveling for fun?  How do you feel about short-term missions and voluntourism?

I came to the conclusion in Oz that traveling wasn’t sin and in fact does much good.  For example, teaching appreciation for all people and learning that Amurica’s way of life is not only not the only way out there, but also not necessarily the best.  And remember Warriuka? I was able to volunteer at two camps, one of which was dangerously low on leaders.  So what do you say to that?

I would rather be honest with myself, with God and with you, about my reasons for going somewhere or doing something. I can’t pretend its for anything other than learning, fun, and to experience the complexities, the beauties and tragedies, of creation. I’d rather not try to pull one over on you, on God, and even on myself.  I want truth at any cost.  I’d feel more guilt as an imposter.

And you know what? I even have a friend who wants to go with.  He’s a complicated friend, but a friend nonetheless, and I can’t imagine a better vagabonding partner.

All this to say…

I have four dollars in the account now, but the account is called Chile, and friend, it will grow.

http://www.wwooflatinamerica.com/