I'm not going to lie, these past few weeks since I've been back from the West Coast have been rough. Like, real rough. I've had no energy. None to the point that I was convinced that any day I would come down with the flu. And on top of that, I've had terrible insomnia. The worst. Two hours of sleep max per night. And then I've spent my days looking around the amazing little house I'm renting, in an absolutely gorgeous state, and I feel so ungrateful that I don't wake up from my fitful sleep feeling more content. I feel this constant longing that I can't pin down. It's terrible. And honestly, for that alone I blame the lack of Sam Shephards in my neighborhood. I really think I would wake up feeling MUCH more satisfied if I had Sam Shephard next to me (RIP), but thats neither here nor there. But, yeah, I feel terrible that I've been wasting my life away for these past couple months, even though I know its been really important to try and get myself back on track. More and more shit comes out publicly about past work situations and its a lot to process. And for a long, long time I never felt jealous about what I was missing out with by being isolated from my friends. An odd upside to working 24/7 was that I never really had the time to feel like I was being left out of the good times. I never had that pang of sadness. Not while I was in Atlanta. Not when I moved to New York and for a while, not when I moved to Vermont...but now, I am very, very jealous. I got a taste of what life could be like socially and it's really, REALLY, hard to be back in reality. For lack of a better phrase, it sucks.

But, see, I'm not one to go down without a fight. And knowing I was having a hard time in Vermont, I've been putting myself out there. Because I'm a strong and independent woman, and like, fuck it, right? So I decided to wade through the forrest of cock-goblins on Vermont Tinder to just see if there was SOMEONE, anyone, who might be a viable candidate for even the most basic of conversations. I saw about 20 men who could be best described as "my worst nightmare" and who remarkably also claimed to be polyamorous. Thats a topic for another day, but FUCK THAT. I mean. Fuck. That. Anyway, there was dude who popped up and seemed normal-ish. Normal aside from having a tattoo that definitely looked like a Rusted Root album cover. He had been messaging me for a while, and last week, probably due to insomnia and cabin fever, I decided to bite the bullet. A girls gotta take a chance, right? Live her life? He didn't live in my town (NO ONE DOES APPARENTLY) but would be passing through TO BUY KITTY LITTER and said we should meet. Reader, I know. I KNOW. Should the Rusted Root tattoo have been the first red flag, sure, but we all do questionable things. I have a tramp stamp that even I forget I have, because its that fucking stupid, AND I've spent years of hard drinking trying to bury that mistake deep inside me. And yes, while the fact he had to drive to my town to buy kitty litter was very, very troubling - because, where does he live that he can't purchase kitty litter???? - I was trying to be a bigger person, with an open mind, and I decided to overlook that too. We made a date to meet for a mid-day drink on Thursday. And you know what? I was kind of excited. I mean, maybe he runs an animal rescue and the litter is for the horde of cats he's saving from being killed by Vermont bears and Fisher Cats? Maybe he was actually IN Rusted Root? Maybe I could talk him into a comeback tour with them and Big Head Todd and the Monsters. I could get a song named after me. WHO KNOWS - The possibilities are endless!!! Guess what happened next? Just guess.

HE STOOD ME UP. Thiiiiiiiis hacky-sack motherfucker, who had to travel to purchase KITTY LITTER, stood me up. EVEN BEFORE HE MET ME! Like, I'm not a mathematician, but I think that took the number of eligible bachelors in Vermont, the ones without hooves for feet and hair that doesn't look like Satan himself coiffed it, from like, 40 to 39. THOSE AREN'T GREAT NUMBERS, MY MAN. And this isn't the first time I've been stood up, but it is the first time I've been stood up by someone I probably didn't even want to meet in the first place. Which is insult to injury. I had to pump myself up for this shit. Come the fuck on, Universe. That's some ruditude.

So, cut to Friday. I'm not sleeping. Most of my hiking trails are iced in due to a month straight of plowing snow into their paths. I miss my friends terribly. I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. And this Matcha Latte Motherfucker stood me up. I needed a change of scenery. I needed to clear my head. I needed some chicken soup for the mid-thirties soul. So I did what any weirdo would do - I rented a "poets cottage" in the woods of Maine and drove six hours so I could hike and walk on the beach. Normal stuff.

Yesterday, after loading up the hell hounds, I hit the road. I started with my normal 'driving tunes' but they just weren't cutting it - so I switched to the harder shit and listened to a three part, almost 5 hour, podcast on JONESTOWN. I loooooooooove cults. I loooooooove cult leaders. I looooooooove aviators. So this had everything my little heart desired. I did worry if I was in a wreck, they would find my charred body while tapes of Jim Jones final speech to the people of Jonestown while they drank the Flavoraide played on my burnt out stereo. "Mother mother mother" they'd hear him croon as they all guzzled down off brand Kool aid. Oh well, probably the least weird thing people would find after my death. That reminds me, in the event I die, best to steer clear of my art studio. It's nothing but nightmare fuel in there. Take it from me. Also call one of my friends to go through my bedroom drawers. Ya know. Just to be safe. Anyway, so I drank coffee and listened to people break down a cult leader. Normal shit for a nice long drive. I reached my little cottage around 6pm. It was pitch black, nestled back in the woods and while absolutely cozy and adorable, it also definitely looked like the setting for a horror film. Like, there are no curtains on the windows, so when I was changing I expected to look up and see Stephen King outside doing some recon for "Scary Ass Maine Locations".

What an adorable place to be murdered! xo

The inside of the cottage is incredibly cozy and sweet. The upstairs bedroom was literally designed for boning-down. Like, lumberjack or sexy lobsterman style. Rustic and horny. Which is my general aesthetic. Suuuuuuper fun to be sharing the bed with myself and a pile of books. Per the usual. The best part about the cottage has to be what the owners left me as a welcome gift - which, is maybe the saltiest burn I've received as an adult - they left me, after confirming it would just be me (and the dogs) staying here - 1 bottle of white wine. 1 Clearly Canadian (blackberry flavor, natch). I DVD (the only DVD here) of FAR AND AWAY. Well fucking played. I gasped at the A+ shade lobbed my direction. Even a spinster can appreciate that sort of sass.

I settled in for the night and tried to watch Misery on my laptop, because I'm nothing if not a glutton for punishment. And what better way to scare the shit out of myself in the woods than watch a movie about a very lonely woman. It me. JK JK JK JK. I dont have the upper arm strength to even pick up a mallet. Instead, I watched a bit of Misery, thought naw, and fell back asleep to an audio book about Jonestown. I wish I were kidding. Remarkably, I slept a bit. Of course I was up at 5am. And not just up - WIDE AWAKE. So I made coffee and waited for dawn. Per the usual. There's something so terrible about wanting to start your day, but its just too early. It's the adult, very, very lame version of Christmas morning as a child. I used to wake up at 4am and just lay there.....waiting. And waiting. And waiting. This is the same thing. Only there's no presents. And no family camaraderie. Basically its the equivalent of being forced to clean up all the wrapping paper. But, still. I just want to start my damn day. Finally, dawn broke and it was a glorious morning. I have to say, if you're in need to a spiritual and mental reboot, come to Acadia National Park. I realize, Winter is not the ideal time, but there's something very fitting about being in an empty, serene place and where I am at mentally right now. I got up, took my coffee and camera and went on a three mile trail that lead me through the woods and to the ocean. The waves had a touch of ice in them and the wind was whipping. I felt my soul wake up a bit. Every step reminded me of why I needed this trip. It reinforced my longing, and at the same time, oddly, gave me release too? It's like that stupid "Footprints in the Sand" poem. Only, I was carrying myself. I walked and walked and climbed up rocks that had become slick from frozen Seaspray and I didn't care about safety. I climbed and climbed. And slipped. And got muddy. And took deep breaths. And listened to the birds. And the wind. And the far off cry of the horn warning sailors of the rocky shore. And for a moment, albeit brief, everything made sense. And I knew that this path, while rambling and with hazards around every corner, is my path. And as long as I'm true to what I'm feeling, I'll find my way to the end, somehow. Or at least thats my hope.

At the end of my day, I was walking along the beach, back up to the trail when I saw a flock of seagulls take off together. I grabbed my camera and caught them swarming around the breaking sun, and I felt such a sense of gratitude. Just pure gratitude. Something I've been craving for a very, very long time. It was exactly what I needed. That two minutes is the reason why I drove six hours.

After a solid 7 hours out in the wild, I came back to the cabin. I have to drive back to Vermont tomorrow. And that's ok. Places like this are special and are only meant in little tastes. You need to take of shot of this vitality. So it hits you where you live. And I got what I came for, thankfully.

So tomorrow, I'll pop in some more Jonestown deep cuts. I'll break it up with horrible pop. I'll stop for coffee and to take pictures of weird and creepy buildings along the way. And I'll get home and I'll try and figure out my next step. And when it's 3am and I can't sleep and I find myself trying to create hexes against the Rusted Root Fuckboi, I'll try and center myself and picture hundreds of seagulls enjoying the sunshine. And how that felt. And when that doesn't work, I'll just picture the seagulls attacking my enemies and pecking out their eyes. Whatever works, ya know?