And here I am. Writing all of this, condensing as much of my 20s as I remember into a series of blog posts for Bobrov to peruse is humbling. It also feels a little self-important, but that’s my insecurity talking. I still don’t have a job, I still can’t get enough money together to move out of my mother’s house and stay moved out/not homeless. I’m still fat, but working on that bit by bit. Soups and stews help, and sparkling water.

I’ll be going to see my father in a few weeks, and I’m not sure how long I’ll stay for. He invited me up, and I’m not too proud to deny a chance to escape this goddamn heat. And, you know, to see family and catch up. But there isn’t where I belong, nor is here. I can’t lose sight of that truth: that everything I do right now is to better prepare me to find some dingy-ass shotgun shack somewhere, slap some amount of money significantly greater than what it should be into someone’s hand, and live my life—however boring, rote or bizarrely weird it may be.

I’d like to travel more, return to some places I’ve been that I enjoyed. The central northern US would be nice, and I might be able to find out if I’d want to move there eventually. I’d also like to consider the possibility of dating, once I can afford to do more than watch pirated movies and get a fine meal at the local corner store. I’d like a car not made in the 90s, as good to me as mine has been all these years.

But, I may not get all of those things. Or any of them, aside from the ability to afford my own place. That’s non-negotiable, but as long as I’m in the black each month and have a roof over my head, I can’t complain. Well, except for on this blog. God, it feels good to shout at the void.