It's Official. . .

my garden is dead. And all it took was three and a half weeks of neglect.

*sigh*

Well, I'm ready to get back on the road again. I've washed all the clothes, cooked a heap of food for the dastardly dad and the creepy, gay retiree across the road who I call Fruiticus Cakeus.

Poor Fruiticus is such a pain in the ass (no pun intended) that even his own family, who own about 1000 acres of pastureland over there won't have anything to do with him. He lives alone in an old home on the property and to the best of my knowledge has never been married nor fathered any children. I don't know if he's gay or not, but he makes some statements from time to time about my looks or hair that's enough to give a dead animal the creeps.

I wonder what this week has in store for me? More frustrations? Hopefully nothing but successes. We need it.

I'm staring in the bathroom with dread. Not that I don't want to take a shower, but I know that right after, I'm back in the truck headed south. And I guess my vacation to my old stomping grounds in Costa Rica is on hold until further notice also. Who knows when life will return to normal?

Sometimes I want to just throw up my hands and say "Fuck it and fuck you! I'm leaving!" I've done that a time or two. But I suppose my days of irresponsibility are over and I can no longer walk away when I get fed up.

I was talking to an old friend recently and I suggested to her that we pack our stuff and just take off traveling until the money runs out. Then after the money is gone, wherever we are, we work. . .until we have enough to make it back. Writing about and photographing the whole ordeal.

Well, one can dream. . .