letters from the freezing tundra of northern new england

And once again I'm on the train, to my own middle of nowhere, the freezing freaking wastelands of northern new england. I pay no taxes, as I will happily remind anyone who will ask even the least probing questions, but make no mistakes, I am taxed. The alone-ness won't get me -- for your best companion is inside your own head -- but the cold and the dreariness of mediocrity might.

I write this to distract myself from  more important priorities of life -- the GRE is closing up on me like the streetcar was on those drunk aussies who were playing chicken with it in new orleans (oh yes, no that's a story!) and I will likely also move away before it's too close to hurt me. I won't win, probably, but if I wanted to win then playing chicken with the metaphorical equivalent of an aging streetcar system of the blues capital of the world wasn't a good idea anyway. The fun is in playing, if I may remind you one more time.

And then what's left to do? They say people go to bars to make friends. They forget that i am already friends with multiple people capable of sustaining 40-hour parties with moderate drinking. It's not the drunks that I want to befriend, nor the kind who go to bars who go to bar to make friends. Since, if you will have realized by now, I am no drunk. So I take it easy, but it doesn't take ME easily.

More on that in the future.

I still have stories from my recent and older travels. Need to get those out stat before I forget.