Change of Address

Do you ever sit yourself down and demand, now just what the jiminy do you think you are doing?

That’s all I’ve been doing for the last two hours.

No joke.

I’ve been sitting here, clad in my faithful Patty sweater and thick woolen socks, a bottle of 2014 Merlot–not even the good kind–to my left and classic rock humming from the top of my bookshelf where the free bluetooth speaker sits, the one that my mother acquired for me at a Chamber of Commerce tradeshow.

I’ve been googling things.

It’s a dangerous business, Josie, googling things that are relevant to your dreams. You step onto the Interweb, and if you don’t keep your fingers, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.

Running 100 miles…moving to Indonesia….being a writer…travelllll…siiighing…

**shudders visibly**

This is the part of the post where the role of “Josie” will be played by someone other than Josie, and the previous energy source who performed the role of Josie will transcend to the narrator. Because the previous-Josie-now-Narrator is a bit encumbered by all the “unknowns” here, and would like to go ahead and be in charge of something else, thank you very much.

However annoying it might be for her reader, you dear soul, just know: it’s for the absolute best. There is a limit to making so much entirely applicable, after all. Sometimes one needs to step back and pretend that one is the narrator of one’s own life, instead of the participant.

Well, in part thanks to her good friend Merl and the hot water bottle that’s snuggled against her loins, Josie is nice and warm in her sweater and her socks. And if you were wondering, dear reader, yes, she will be taking her Patagonia sweater with her when she departs for Indonesia in April.

Who knows if she’ll need it? She doesn’t. She doesn’t really know much, to be honest, and her mad speed-googling sessions–leading her mostly to contemporary art blogs and websites featuring services for manicuring domestic house pets–have served to make her even less sure that she has any idea of what she is doing.

For it to be any other way would be boring.

But that’s a hard concept to remember when people keep reminding her that, actually, “normal” people know what they’re going to do instead of just moving somewhere and “playing it cool, maaan”.

Don’t tell her this, buoyant reader, but it’s probable she’ll never have real peanut butter ever again. Who knows, really.

And I’m definitely not saying the Indonesians are savages. Absolutely not. I’m just saying that the only real peanut butter is Jiff’s Natural Peanut Butter, and that’s not so common outside of the United States.

Good lord, the things that go on in her mind. It’s baffling, honestly, I’m glad to have gotten out of there while I could.

Let’s close out of these tabs, Josie, and go listen to some Beyonce.

 

Peaces, y’all,

Narrator

 

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About Josie

I run slowly through forests, eat spoonfuls of Jif's Natural creamy peanut butter, and perpetually wear a fuzzy Patagonia sweater I found for $1.50 at a charity shop in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I deal in trees, breeze, and threes. I'm not interested in being normal. I'm not looking to pass GO. I'm not looking for anything other than breathable freedom.