day twenty-nine of adventure number three thousand and seventy eight million.
i have a cold. i am in the process of whitening my teeth and growing my hair. i may begin to sing to it sometimes, late at night, songs about growing when i cannot sleep. then my teeth will glow uv in the dark. if i want you and it is night i will open my mouth and you will know where to find me.
things i must learn to do:
; eat less, and dance more.
; bend backwards over purple exercise balls.
; withstand more than fleeting eye contact.
; let someone touch me when i am sober enough to feel it.
; be okay with dirt.
; drive.
one day i want to start at the east coast of this country and end up on the other side. i will take one passenger, maybe two, but only so long as they promise to dangle their feet out of windows, and make me mix tapes perfect for driving and singing. we will dance barefoot in the desert, and read poetry to the stars, and send postcards to made-up addresses and hope that they actually find someone. on the way we will find someone who knows henna like magic; i will probably get a pattern curled around my ankle, maybe something nestled on my left shoulder or on my belly. we will outdrive everything. we will learn to appreciate clouds and the very last second before it becomes dark. we will rescue near-roadkill and leave our hair unbrushed for months.
this is a promise i am making myself.