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Desert 27

Now that I’m grown up, I still don’t have any idea what I want to be. Lots of folks hit this wall around 27. That’s why they all die. I’m not saying that to be dramatic… just as an observation. It’s that perfect age to leave in infamy. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Robert Johnson, even that asshole Jim Morrison, (sorry to Doors fan nuts).

What I’m trying to say is… I don’t live the life of a rock star. I missed that turn a while back. So instead of up and dying by way of alcohol, (possible murder) heroin, suicide, (possible murder) poisoning, or (what killed Jim Morrison? Did he choke on a chicken wing?) I’m sitting here, fresh off a fabulous vacation wondering not what in the hell I want to be when I grow up, but more, what do I want to do tomorrow morning when I wake up.

But then the potential hits like a shotgun blast to a juicy watermelon. I’ve gotten myself an education, a stable job and a fuckload of possible roads to take… And if I go on any further, I’ll cross that fine line where a blog becomes less universal (to a certain group of a certain age of a certain disposition) and more a journal. Where do you or I go from here?

O yeah. Here’s a series of photos from the Nevada desert. I was swarmed by gnats and ran over a snake of an indeterminate species. It was beautiful.