The gears have been set into motion. I have made the final decision on leaving Mexico for good, never to return to this damnable desert. Gone will be the drunken nights of misguided debauchery and rampant alcoholism. For a time, I will walk among the double-standard, Victorian aptitudes of the United States where Home of the Free, Land of the Brave had been butchered oh so long ago that no one cares anymore. I have made the ultimate choice of stepping free of this paranoid existence and will become, once more, a hobosexual.
I strongly think I need this. A long time reader who I had become estranged from on account of no fault but my own selfish insanity, had put the finger on the proverbial nosey: “You are an outside cat, not an indoor cat.” That one shot faggoty retort had rung true all these years when first commented on a long, drunken rant from said reader.
My plan? Plans within plans, Dear Reader. I am debarking for Tucson, where I will enjoy that town for as long as my scatter brained personae will tolerate. Then, it will be off to New Orleans. I want to dig that city of ill-repute as I did decades ago. Afterwards, making a stop in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to visit with an old High School chum and his wife who has so graciously invited me into their home. Then, ultimately, flying down into San Juan, Puerto Rico where, if the gods smile on me, I will make one final attempt to settle down. Retire, if you will, and spend the rest of my days drinking rum and writing horribly, unpublishable novels.
Am I nervous? Sure as shit, I am. I shouldn’t. I mean, I have pulled this cockamamie stunt countless of times. Yet, I feel all doors are closing, all cards have been dealt. Time’s up, sir. Last call.
Never the less, this summer promises a literal rollercoaster of bring downs and dramatic circumstances. You bought the ticket, Dear Reader, take the ride…
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