Where do I begin?
I can begin with the cowboy hat. I bought the cowboy hat at the feed store in Willits before I fell asleep in Josh’s car on the way to Arcata. I bought the cowboy hat because I felt that I’d earned it after two months of camping in the Northern California woods. I bought the cowboy hat because Goat bought one and I was copying his style, and I bought the cowboy hat because I don’t give a fuck about copying anyone’s style anymore. Your style is my style. Let’s all be civil about this, shall we?
And so I am wearing a cowboy hat. And I look ridiculous. But I don’t look as ridiculous as you, because you aren’t wearing a cowboy hat. Which means fuck you.
I’m utterly exhausted. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so tired. I’m tired of living out of a backpack. I’m tired of camping on a hill. Do you know what? Do you motherfuckers know? Here, I’ll tell you: camping sucks the life out of you. Camping makes you old and wise. Camping is as camping does, and camping doesn’t do it for me anymore.
Last night, finishing the last bin, I’m passing around the whiskey:
“We’re fucking done, motherfuckers!” I cannot convey the excitement I felt, the depth of my love of humanity at that moment. All I can tell you is that whiskey was passed and drunk, that I made it to bed at 4:30 in the morning, that the deep-fried Thanksgiving turkey worked its magic. All I can tell you is that the credits to that particular movie rolled, and that no one got any credit for any-damned-thing.
I miss you all like I miss old girlfriends. And I can’t wait to say Hello again.