Deracinate.

Now that my boyfriend has left I am all stimulus package, all the time, and after a brief bout with a computer virus (thanks, boyfriend!) I am once again out and about, climbing up and down this city from bar stool to bar stool with impunity. Whatchoo readin'? the (Irish of course) barkeep asked; You know, I think I've heard of that author before (Fitzgerald, The Crack-Up). And it's sort of perfect that I'm reading what I'm reading, not because I'm cracking up or nuffink, but because I'm holding it together remarkably well.

I flew West in a techno-loaded iPod, sandwiched between two cute boys with a bar menu at my beck and call. And that's what last night was like too, a bevy of cute boys waiting for me at the bar downstairs while I handled my infection. I think you're gonna have to send up some beers I told room service, and beers they sent up. And then as late as it was I settled in with my beers and my book to a night full of wicked-vivid dreams.

A week it's been and the miles logged are many and, I don't know, I'm not homesick or nuffink. Travel is such a different beast to me these days than once it was not so long ago. It's just that the overriding question has been Why are you here? and the overriding answer is I do not know. Which, again, perfect.