You know that Jack Kerouac went his whole life on the road writing his alcoholic what-have-yous and he never even drove or had his license. Isn’t that amazing?

I know that inevitably I will obtain my license, I just have this terrible test anxiety now, it runs in the family. My mom didn’t get her license ’til she was much, much older.

I know that one day when I have a car and something goes wrong, I’m just going to drive and drive and drive until I am in the desert, until my hair dries out and turns golden white, until I am wearing cowboy boots and listening to crackly static on the radio and I have a bottle of scotch whiskey between my legs, until I reach that tiny payphone and call you up and tell you to meet me by the cactus and the lagoon, until you are the last voice I hear before I am gone.

You know, stupid romantic bullshit like that.

I want to tell you something insightful and I want to leave you with some hope about me and where I am going to next and if I will tell you about it when I get there, but I sometimes worry that once I finish writing this, I will have nothing left.

I can’t go off on another fucked up adventure and lose my mind and become a whole new person with new visions and experiences. This depression I have, this is what I have, this is all I have it feels and this book is like my memoirs I think.