Jill yearned to sell everything and live full-time in a motorhome. For her, there existed no stronger pull than the allure of going right to the precipice of civilization and then continuing over without even slowing down. Falling into the unknown, knowing only that it’s the surest way to know you’re fucked. The sultry mix of gas fumes, septic aromas, and barely chilled vegetables rotting in an overworked traveling refrigerator combined to form an irresistible fragrance that marked a life on the move. To pack all of our belongings and hit the open road in search of deep, irreplaceable memories full of irreparable emotional traumas, that was a call she could not silence and her heart refused to ignore. Continue reading
Recently, the fam and I went to La Carolina del Norte. A lot of stuff happened. Some stuff involving goats. And worse. But we’re not going to relive any of that. Best to repress those memories as soon as possible. Before the horror sets in. The only thing I want to talk about–the only thing worth focusing on–is my latest run-in with an old nemesis; THE PANCAKE MACHINE.
GET OUT OF MY BRAIN, GOAT!
When I was twelve, my aunt bought a trailer and dropped it in a gravel parking lot in Monticello, Indiana. It was her summer home. Every weekend she would drive the two and a half hours to sit in air conditioned gloom and read while my cousins bothered her for quarters to play at the arcade that was further up the lot.