“Tell me the part of your story that led up to this moment,”  he asks me shortly after I tell him I’m living in a camper I just bought and going to  wander the wind, and ride the road for awhile.  The short version?  I flipped a house with my ex, my car got totaled (at 9:20 on 9/20) and my boyfriend broke up with me, soooo I threw some stuff in a rental, grabbed the check at closing and with the intention of no permanent address drove towards the sunshine seeking warmer pastures.   I had no idea what I was going towards, but I was pretty clear on what I was leaving; memories of the best relationship I’d ever had and the merry-go-round of one of the worst.  The cult I’d been a part of and the only state that I’d ever called home – my going out from and my coming back to since forever.

My addresses always ended in “WI”, but no more.  My realtor just laughed when our closing officer asked me to sign and fill in my new address.  “Oh, I don’t have one of those,” I tell her.  I wasn’t sure if I could actually get away with that

If there’s a time when I would reply “story of my life” it would be that some rules are meant to be bent and others are meant to be broken.  I have an almost total disregard for them.  Ask anyone.  I was raised by someone who shoved them down my throat like milk and now I drink neither.  I….make my own shit up, for the most part.  and sometimes I look like I’m really fucking it up, but I never am.  You can’t screw it up inside the miracle, Karen said the other night.  And I live inside the miracle and I like to write all about it.