I’ll burn this life down and climb on a plane for Iceland. My new life might be waiting for me there. Or I might pack my bags and light out for a village in Peru. Maybe I’ll head to Boise. That might be the place of answers and inspiration.
Or, no, I’ll go someplace warm where there are palm trees and I can live right around the corner from a 7-11 and a tattoo parlor. Every morning I’ll walk over to the 7-11 in my flip-flops for a Big Gulp, a chili dog, and a game of pinball, and then I’ll go up the street to get some more ink drilled into my flesh. I’ll have a map of the world tattooed around the circumference of my torso, just like a globe, very detailed and colorful, complete with ornate compass roses and the whole fucking works.
I’ll never wear a shirt if I can help it. I’m thinking there’ll be a driving range or a batting cage somewhere in the vicinity where I can go every afternoon and hit balls until my hands bleed. I’ll become a fucking hitting machine. There for damn sure will be a barbecue joint in the neighborhood, and a bar with a decent jukebox. I’m thinking this might be Tempe, maybe, or Orlando.
I’ve got nothing against living in a trailer, just so long as I can have a dog and people leave me the fuck alone. I don’t give a rat’s ass if I never look at a television again in my life. At night I’ll work on my screenplay, and when I turn out the lights I’ll stretch out on the bed and gently trace with my fingers all my broken dreams across the continents and deserts and oceans of my body.