Stop Clicking Your Red Heels and Wishing for Home…
Have you ever been sitting around, perhaps more bored than you’d like to admit, and thought to yourself, “Hey, Self, wouldn’t it be a super idea to corral the hairy, miscreant dog into the truck, load the pony beasties into the trailer, and lure Mom into the truck with promises of cheap wine and chocolate, all to uproot our entire being just for shits and giggles?”
Odds are that if you fall into a large [sane] portion of the population, the answer is probably no; you have not had the aforementioned conversation with yourself. There are many reasons for this; perhaps you don’t have an ADHD Aussie or two petulant horses; perhaps your mother isn’t a fan of chocolate and wine; or perhaps you just don’t enjoy talking to yourself in the third person, which could indeed indicate that you also are more or less sane, another reason such ideas wouldn’t be blossoming in your head. Of course maybe you’ve never had this conversation with yourself because you’re entirely comfortable with your life as you know it and see no real reason to rock the proverbial boat and open yourself up to the possibility of it capsizing. A sound stance on the matter indeed, much akin to my view on skydiving; jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is sheer lunacy. So despite what you may assume, given my penchant for talking to myself and all, I actually fell into this last category, rather than my former, hypothetical one.
So why then did I hurtle myself out of the plane and embark on said epic adventure, trekking 1500+ miles across the country with a hairy dog, two disgruntled horses, and my Mother? It was not for a lack of better things to do, that I can promise you. In fact, I’ve never really been one for adventure–too much asspain– instead I’ve been a professional perfectionist, loathing any and all change that might upset what I’d come to know as the normal progression of things. However, in all honesty, this hasn’t been because I hold any disdain for those who love a thrill–not at all– mostly it’s just been that change has always scared the shit out of me (it’s so…shifty…). That being said, when I met Louis and we started dating despite the 1500 miles between us, I knew something would eventually hit the proverbial fan: in the worst case scenario we’d spend a lot of time flying back and forth only to realize that it was for naught and that we hated each other. Best case scenario, we’d fall in love and spend a lot of time flying back and forth only to realize it was damn expensive to do that and that we hated being apart.
Turns out the best case scenario prevailed. And so, given the choice between my life as it was but without Louis or a new one with him, I choose the latter and thus the road trip began.
As you can see from my spotty entries, there was some hilarity afoot, but also a great deal of exhaustion (it is surprisingly tiring to simply stay awake for 550 miles or so a day!), which is why I did not update daily. As such, what follows is sort of a running commentary on the highlights of our journey.
Day 1: Tornado Watch, Anyone?
The day started far too early, “O’ass early” in fact, which is the universally accepted title for anything before 4:30 am. (It is also sometimes referred to as “Dark thirty” if you’re too polite for the other). At said time, I found myself tromping through a 20 acre field in the dark, shaking some grain, and feebly calling for Woody all while praying he’d appear so we could get going. Appear he did, with three of his closest and pissiest friends. I fended them off admirably and drug Woody into the barn to wrap him.
15 minutes later, Woody and Puppy are wrapped and I am covered in sweat because Florida thinks it’s appropriate to be 90 degrees with 100% humidity before sunrise. Awesome.
Next, because we stayed at Mom’s the night before, I had to hook up the trailer. ‘Normally’ this is easy. Of course, ‘normally’ it is not dark and ‘normally’ my bed is not full of crap. 30 minutes and a whole lot of fun phrases later, I managed to get the two attached and pulled over by the wash rack so that we could see to load the horses.
At this point, Mom began attempting to fill water buckets, just a few of the fun items loaded in the bed of my truck to obstruct my view, while I checked the hitch. Good thing I did, as I noticed that in my joy and rapture trying to get the trailer hooked up I’d not pulled up the main (spring loaded)post the trailer rests on. As such it made a nice little trench all the way around the barn where I drove. The awesomeness continues. As I bent to release the post, it clicks and comes flying up flinging dirt as mom manages to shower me with the hose. Curious phrases began forming in my mouth, but I did not share them.
Luckily for us all at this point both horses loaded nicely and we were able to head out; albeit 2 hours later than I had anticipated.
I drove through DeLand, stopping in Barberville at our favorite backwoods gas station, complete with sketchy Subway, so that we could stock up on Diet Mountain Dew (ounces consumed thus far: 44) and ensure gastric disasters later by consuming Subway’s version of a breakfast sandwich ( I promise you those are NOT real eggs on there!). Following that fun and excitement, I made it all the way to Ocala before mom declared that “there ain’t enough bourbon in the world to get me through this;” keep in mind that this was was 9:00 in the morning. We soon switched seats and thus ended my role as driver; I’d gone a whopping 172 miles of our 1500+. Nice.
After being ousted as driver, I turned my attention to more pressing matters, such as how well Hobbes was doing his job as our head security force. I believe this compilation of photos taken over the course of the three days should shed some light on his diligence.
Upon becoming bored of photographing the Hobgoblin, I turned my attention to harassing Madison via Mom’s phone. This was largely amusing for me, but may in fact have brought bad karma upon me in the not so distant future. Basically, Madison had a wart burned off before we left and it was a wrapped up, bloody mess. So she sends Mom a text message: “I’m scared to take this thing off.” ‘Mom’s’ response: “You SHOULD be! That’s some scary shit.” Much to my delight, mock nastiness ensued and kept me amused for the better part of an hour.
Unfortunately my diversion was short lived and once more I was forced to find new and inventive ways to amuse myself. Lacking a great deal of creativity, I turned to drinking more Diet Mountain Dew (ounces consumed: 52) and reading mom’s old text messages which somehow lead into a discussion of all the horrid things that could go wrong on this trip. Seriously? WTF. The very T.O.K. question of just what ARE the “worst case scenarios” was mulled over a bit. My worst case scenario had something to do with being attacked by a mob of flying clown moneys that would eat my horses and destroy my truck. (Because honestly, what on Earth could be more terrifyingly worse? Simply put, nothing.) Mom clearly didn’t agree (she even mocked me!? Pssh).
At least she equally mocked Wan’s* idea of a “worst case scenario” which involved being “pulled over by a guy who will force you to give a blowjob at gunpoint.” Oh boy. There are so many issues with that scenario that render is well below a “worst case scenario,” largely the fact that it is entirely preventable (whereas ravenous, flying clown monkeys are NOT, thankyouverymuch). Much amusement was derived from this conversation, but like all great things, this too ended and the boredom ensued. The only other randomly amusing, possibly noteworthy thing on the remainder of the drive was a sign that read: “A harp sounds nice.” That is all. I refuse to even begin to hypothesis as to what its significance is (ok, I lied. Maybe it’s a creepily positive, yet cliched take on death from road rage or simply horrid driving; as in at least when you die, if you were ‘good,’ you’ll get a harp, and those sound nice–unlike crunching metal?… hmm. I dunno).
So after an incredibly exciting day, and by incredibly exciting I mean one notch above slitting our wrists from sheer boredom, we arrived at out first stop in Alabama at about 3:30 in the afternoon. Things went amazingly smoothly. I unloaded the ponies, hosed them down, and then went to clean the trailer.
That is precisely when the bad Juju from my earlier shenanigans with Madison took effect and I managed to step down from the trailer directly into a hole and roll/sprain/break my ankle. Talk about instantly hitting the ground. After Mom got over the initial shock and terror that I had broken my leg and we were now stranded in BFE Alabama, she switched into mothering, suck-it-up-we’re-getting-the-hell-back-on-the-road mode. After being wrapped up and feeling my ankle throb and then not feeling my toes, I was getting the feeling that there wasn’t going to be enough Diet Mountain Dew in the world to make this better (which of course doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t still try. Ounces consumed for the day: 96).
Gimping steadily along, I managed to feed the ponies and accompany Mom to Crackerbarrel for dinner before I passed out for the night. At least the room was nice.
After dumping our stuff in the room, a quick shower, and then some ‘fine’ dining, I checked on the horses while Mom was left to attempt walking the Hobbit who was more than ready to be let loose from the car.
So, after much shenaniganary (no, that is not a word, and yes I am an English major which I am going to assume gives me the clout to make my own words up as necessary), day one ended with me laying in bed sending gross pictures of my swollen ankle to Facebook and wondering if the horses would even consider getting in the trailer for round two.
*Name has been changed to marginally protect the identity of the alarmist.
Day 2: Follow the Shitty Back Roads, follow the Shitty Back Roads….
After an interesting night spent cuddling with Mom and the aft end of my fluff ass dog who weaseled onto the bed sometime during the wee hours, I was justifiably thrilled to be up at O’ass early once again to feed the hooved hooligans and usher them into the tin box under cover of darkness. Fortunately from me, while I am not always intelligent enough to avoid volunteering for absurdity, I am at least intelligent enough that I learn from my mistakes, thus I had already hooked the trailer up the night before while I could still see what the Hell I was doing. This eliminated at least 45 minutes of pure asshattery from the morning agenda; something I was entirely grateful for given the 95% humidity, 90 degree Alabama weather. To my dismay, my ankle was still trying to become one with my calf so walking was even more precarious than usual. Luckily the beasties cooperated as I gimped them from the barn to the trailer. I don’t think I could have loved Puppy more than when he practically leapt into the trailer. This was mostly given the fact that I had visions of him doing his giraffe impersonation then bolting backwards at a high rate of speed while I skied through the trailer and face planted in the field.
Having successfully eliminated any chance of being asked to drive, I sat back as Mom careened around the field. avoiding silly things like trees and fences that seem to blend into the morning fog. Once we made it into civilization– also known as where the paved roads begin– we decided to hit up the gas station for breakfast, caffeine, and our last shot at a quasi-legit bathroom for the next few hours. After using the facilities and buying my 44 ounces of phenylalanine laced bliss (ounces drunk thus far: 140) which ultimately negates my former action, I was conned into buying breakfast for the Hobbit.
Nothing says “I’ve been driving too long and lost all sense of nutrition but don’t give a fuck” like multiple Krispy Kreme donuts for breakfast. Rather than contemplate the egregious error in nutritive judgement, we all enjoyed the brief sugar buzz and then crashed into the monotony that is driving across the backwoods of Alabama.
In those early hours we erroneously fell into a sort of lull, assuming another day of uneventful travel. Even the stupid tunnel that made me claustrophobic as all Hell because it goes under the bay and feels entirely too small to have people traveling so fast wasn’t enough to alert me to the dangers ahead. Little did we know that the state of Louisiana is home to a plethora of inept drivers and utter assclowns, many of which we would have multiple near death experiences with. Honestly, Louisiana has taken Georgia’s place for me as the asshole of the United States (and Dear, God, that takes quite a bit. Way to go, Louisiana).
The first near death experience involved a Semi and a little shit car, neither of which understood the larger concepts of physics, which meant they neither knew how to merge nor comprehended the fact that a loaded four horse rig cannot stop within 10 feet when it is traveling in excess of 70mph (well I’ll be damned! Who knew??). This called for some very exciting times and some even more exciting phrases from Mom. So exciting in fact, that she told me that I could not post them here. Of course, despite her desire to invoke censorship in this blog, I told her that I would not stand for it! The people must know! As such I would love to post her exact, potentially horrifying words, but I have since forgotten them (oh, well. Imagine a few F-bombs and some creative words like, “assclown,” or “dickwad” and you’re pretty close to the mark).
The second and third near death experiences also involved semis and shit cars but were far less amusing than the Huey P. Long Memorial bridge; dubbed by Mom as “the mother of all big, shitty ass bridges.” Now, I know what you’re thinking; how exciting can a stupid bridge be? Normally I would agree with you. But normally I’m not pulling a horse trailer through the ghettos of Baton Rogue. It would seem that in his creation of the “Bible,” by which we’d charted our course, Louis thought a more scenic route would be refreshing. As such, rather than staying on I-10, we found ourselves driving through the backwoods of New Orleans and Baton Rogue on US-90 which is one lane. This meant we had all sorts of fun looking at the local culture, gators, and the highly skilled craftsmanship of their infrastructure. See the culture below:
This also meant that we got first hand experience with said infrastructure in the form of the Huey P. Long memorial bridge. A bit of background on this gem of a memorial that you might find interesting, is that the bridge was opened in 1935 and has remained mostly unchanged since then. Currently they are widening the bridge so that is has more than one, shoddy ass lane per direction. I assume this is to make traversing the 2+ mile hellishness more tolerable. An after the fact Google search turned up the fun tidbit that there are actually two of these bridges (God save me), both named Huey P. Long, and both equally shitty, as both are “configured very similar to each other with the long railroad trestles on either end of the bridge, and the scary narrow traffic lanes hung off of the sides of the superstructure. These lanes were even narrower prior to the mid-1990s when 4 feet was added to each side of the bridge.” Nevertheless, at present time, there is much hellishness, and exponentially so when pulling a horse trailer. It was at this point in our trip that I should have started a log of “shit my mother says,” because in her irate form, she was a riot. This state of being continued throughout the day, leading to an array of interesting remarks and conversation.
After surviving the Huey P. Long Ass Bridge of Doom, and knowing we should perhaps reroute ourselves to a more legitimate road with fewer cess pools, swamps, and gators to the sides, we instead decided to push forward on our current route like the special individuals that we are. Somewhere a few hours into the nothingness of BFE Louisiana, past the bridge and before we reached an actual interstate, Mom’s last shred of sanity gave way. I want to say this was around some podunk town called “Bunkie.” The name itself should say it all. I mean honestly, “Bunkie?” As in, this place is absolute bunk? Whatever the case much laughter ensued–Mom ranting about “where the Hell are we?”– and was only amplified when, after passing the 7th or 8th shack/house, Mom blurted out, “These people must eat their own because there’s no fucking grocery store anywhere!” Now given that it was 12:00ish it could have been her hunger talking, but I’m pretty sure it was mostly the repercussion of driving for hours and seeing no viable life forms. Being the affable, optimistic person that I am (don’t laugh too hard) I considered trying to lighten the mood, and so I looked for some sort of conversation starter. Passing what appeared to be a dilapidated building I casually wondered aloud what it could have been since it was sort of in the middle of nowhere. Mom’s reply, “Well, it was a school until they ate them all.”
This was at 12:30; it was at least another hour before we found our way to a viable interstate. I pitched a bag of breakfast granola at Mom (her newest addiction) and proceeded to down more Diet Mountain Dew (ounces consumed by the time we escaped Bunkie: 228).
As we continued to traipse through Bunkie and towns with similarly tragic names and a severe lack of humanoid inhabitants (AND restroom facilities…doh), we were continually mocked by the signs for I-10. Mom used these as a spring board into a rant about the difference between interstates and US highways. Apparently they are vastly different indeed; they even have different colors assigned to them as noted in the atlas she made me read over (while I also attempted to avoid being carsick from said reading). Somewhere between BFE and “You Gotta Purty Mouth” (you know, right around when you expect to hear dueling banjos) I realized just how ‘effed up this place was. Up ahead in the distance I saw what appeared to be a random horse grazing. No big deal. Normal. As we got closer it became obvious that said horse was loose and meandering about the road and nearby “yards.” This was certainly not normal, nor safe. Despite slowing down out of fear that it might try to end it’s misery by leaping in front of our truck, I was still so dumbfounded by it that I was only able to get a shot of it in my review mirror.
The next few miles were spent justifying why I could note go back and get the poor thing (the chief reasons being that I had no real room without dumping my bike or dresser, Louis might kill me, and the thing might infect Woody and Puppy with something). Before Mom or I could get terribly wrapped up in self loathing at leaving the pony stranded, we spotted a clear sign from the gods that we were once again nearing civilization:
And so, having reached I-10, and Mom having little else to bitch about, we headed to our second layover. We arrived as “Casa Cassel II Arabians” in Lindale, Texas around 4:00 in the afternoon. Though the place looked a bit shabby, for lack of a better phrase, the people were quite nice, and it was (sadly?) apparent that in its day, this place was on the high end of the equine game.
Of course upon arrival, the real fun of fitting a rather large rig into a very small space commenced. A small space that also involved backing into it, then parking the entire mess on what appeared to be a 45 degree incline which left the ass end of the trailer aimed at the Bunkhouse we’d be staying in and the garage. Amazingly, it was accomplished with the help of the owner, an elderly man who had double knee replacement surgery three weeks prior, and his eleven year old granddaughter who was recovering from having her face smashed two weeks before when she was helping stain the wood floor beneath a spire they were putting on the house when it gave way and fell on her, smashing her face (teeth specifically) into the wooden deck floor. While she was helping me unload I attempted to make small talk with the child. For those of you who know me, you know how painful this was. I asked trite questions about if she rode and which was her horse. Stuff that should be harmless. Should be. She proceeded to tell me about how she had a little horse, but then they got another that was sick because they were rescuing it, and then ALL the horses there got sick, and many died, including her horse. So now, in case you were wondering, she just rides an old one they have. Awesome. Anyone wanna bet how much Lysol I coated those stalls in? Come on, any over/unders here?
Rather than focus too much on the fact that the place seemed cursed with absurdly wretched luck, I fed the beasts and Mom and I unhooked and headed to town to find food, leaving an incredibly irked Hobgoblin to destroy the room in his angst. Surprisingly, there was in fact a town and it did have food. Equally surprisingly, the trailer didn’t roll down the hill it was precariously parked on, smashing into their detached garage and wreaking more havoc in everyone’s life. Thank God for small favors.
Upon returning, I hooked up once more (remember that intelligence thing?), and checked again on the boys. They seemed content enough, so I wandered back to the Bunkhouse to crash and rewrap my foot (or rather have Mom rewrap it). On the way I played with a little grey Arabian filly that was actually quite cute (making sure to wash my hands before touching my guys again though, lest the evil muck disease spread to them) then headed in. Day two down, one to go, and the reality of it all is starting to take hold, especially after a day of punch drunk driving through God knows where.
Day Three: How far away IS this place?!
Good morning once more, O’Ass Early; you whore. Our third and final day began the earliest of all. This may have been due to my uncharacteristically early crashing to sleep the night before or to the fact that every second longer at this particular locale seemed to invite misfortune. Whatever the case may be, the horses felt it too as they practically dragged me to the trailer and then leapt in; a curious fact given it would be much more expected of them to refuse loading in the trailer at all after over 1,000 miles in the aluminum horse hell.
Once we got going, and Hobbes had dose 3 of his Benadryl which rendered him non-tichy AND comatose, it was a relatively uneventful drive. In fact, it was so ‘uneventful’ that it’s a wonder no one slit their wrists out of sheer boredom. Had Hobbes been in full control of his faculties I am sure he’d had eaten my backseat or something equally irritating due to excessive boredom. If it weren’t for the really ‘cool’ windmills that dotted the Texas horizon, we’d have had nothing but sand and scrub brush (massive weeds?) to look at.
There were literally thousands of these things everywhere. Which was initially pretty neat to look at in a surreal sort of way. That is until we were going on hour number four of course. Rather than tell you about the monotony of the majority of this day, I’ll let the photos speak for themselves. As I snapped them, I also drank copious amounts of Diet Mountain Dew and then proceeded to make Mom find places to pull over (no small task I assure you, lest I want to pee in a windmill field devoid of cover).
This area was so desolate they didn’t even bother to put billboards up. Just miles upon miles of windmills. Talk about the perfect setting for mental instability to take hold. At one point Mom came up with the “Name That Road Pie” game. This was amusing for the first five pies or so, after which there wasn’t another critter living or dead for the next 200 miles. What seemed like days later, but was in reality only a few hundred miles, we finally hit a town; or at least that’s what they called it. And lo and behold, they even had a billboard:
Interestingly, none of our pies were deemed to be squirrel, so I think maybe they could have chosen a better spokescritter for this. Regardless of its backwoods vibe, we’d still managed to make it to a civilization of sorts. Though as you might note from the photo below, it’s a far cry from what 90% of the general populace consider to be civilization.
Despite my mocking it, at least it was a town, and far more interesting to look at than dirt and reject-airplane-parts-on-sticks fodder (For more views on this lovely metropolis, check out the C&P page where I posted some additional landmarks and attractions). Also, having seen the wonders of Louisiana and some of its more rural communities and clueless drivers, Texas honestly looked cosmopolitan. They too though could stand to work on their driving skills; perhaps they could start with their employees on the force:
After the flipped cop car there were some random stores, then a bit more scrub, and then more emptiness before we hit another town, but I was mostly disinterested. We were getting closer; the epic trip was nearly complete. Hallelujah, and Praise be to Jeebus! Right before leaving the town of Muleshoe (another one for the ‘I-shit-you-not-name list’), Mom noticed a purple Jeep that came flying up beside and then in front of us. She was certain she’d pissed some maniacal idiot off. I assured her she hadn’t and told her to follow the thing. Baffled, she complied. I did eventually have to explain to her that there was only one purple Jeep in the area sporting Nevada tags, a Hawaii sticker, and a dent in the door and that’d be Louis’. While I did not know he was planning on appearing, I wasn’t going to complain. I was all about having a guide for the last bit of this fun and excitement. There was, however, one small concern for me. Somewhere around Lubbock I consumed yet another 44 ounces of Aspartame Glee and it being a good 80 miles later, it was most assuredly time for a potty break. Louis did not know this though, and not knowing where we were heading we couldn’t very well just go traipsing off on our own. I thought maybe I could wait until we made it to the barn, but alas I was mistaken. So in the last three minutes (as it turned out) before we arrived, I was forced to take matters into my own hands. No details, but by the time we’d arrived, the crisis had been averted. Which was helpful, since crisis number 2 was about to unfurl.
Crisis number two was that not only did I have to attempt backing my rig into a narrow driveway akin to a cattle chute, but I was also looking at a “barn” devoid of any real stalls and with an arena located somewhere between it and the back bum-fuck-40 that stretched out behind it. Having come 1500+ miles only to see that I was going to have to turn my horses loose in a field with a suspect looking gang of halflinger ponies and their potentially diabolic Appy leader was nearly my breaking point. Still, knowing it’d be much better to hold myself together, and more importantly having fewer than even two viable options (since I doubt Louis’ neighbors would enjoy my horses frolicking about the neighborhood unheeded) meant that I would indeed be leaving the horses there for at least the night. And so I wrote the check for board, loaded the dog and Mom up, and off we went following the purple Jeep…
And then what? What happens next?
Well, given my talent for procrastination, and the sheer hectic nature that seems to be my existence, all of the above happened nearly 2 months ago (I can also verify this time frame from the Orthopedic’s report on my ankle yesterday that stated I did indeed break it in two places, but that after nearly two months–and many shenanigans on my part–it appears to have healed [anyway] ). During those two months quite a bit has gone on, some highlights include: traveling all over the continental U.S. I’ve been to Lubbock, TX (twice), Boston, MA, Santa Fe and Albuquerque, NM, Orlando, FL, Sacramento and Elk Grove, CA, Reno, NV, and through Phoenix, AZ. Louis, Mom and I constructed a ‘Gazebo;’ Louis and I got to deconstruct it when it helicoptered over the back privacy fence to terrorize the neighborhood while we were in Boston. My dog/goblin has eaten 4 pairs of shoes (all Louis’), Louis’ hat, various plastic things, and burrowed under the air conditioner twice in an attempt to “be with the people.” Louis has spent small fortunes buying toys and shampoo for the Hobbit (bribery?) while also spending small fortunes on my truck. I have spent numerous hours attempting to write, draw, and otherwise be creative while also attempting to decipher the paperwork nightmare that is in fact the U.S. government (background checks are indeed a lengthly, and riveting process to be sure). Woody and Puppy have finally made friends (and enemies) at the barn, and I’ve gotten rid of whatever was up my ass to begin with regarding the stable (as the people who run it are perhaps the nicest and most dedicated you’d ever meet). I have managed to cook edible meals while simultaneously doing laundry, and inadvertently destroying Louis’ dress blues in the dryer (I have also almost set the dryer/house as well as the vacuum cleaner on fire due to the excessive build up of hair combined with their respective heating elements). I have spent hours de-shedding the carpet from all of the Hobbit hair residue while also creating a mini-swamp in the master bathtub from my own hair (Stock Tip of the Day: Buy shares in Drano). Louis and I have made ‘Mexican sushi’ (sound special, huh?), fried Spam (ugh?!), and helped Reagan make French Onion soup. We’ve had the house invaded by 13 of Louis’ closest and dearest friends, and bonded while sharing vehicles when each of ours respectively crapped out for weeks at a time. We’ve ridden together on my BMW F650, complete with neon yellow safety gear, and survived. We’ve watched movies and more TV than I’ve seen in perhaps the last ten years of my life, and explored the ‘wonders’ that reside within the Clovis Wal-Mart while shopping. And yet of all this–perhaps in spite of some of it– and certainly the most significant of it all, I have spent two months living with the guy I’m entirely in love with and falling even more so in love with him daily. While I can’t lie and say that I was never homesick, we all know me better than that, I can say that the acute part was relatively short lived and not nearly as intense as I feared it would be (which must mean we’ve done something right). While I love my friends and family and miss being able to see them (and wreak havoc with many of them), I can’t imagine my life going any differently than it has; I can’t imagine not being here with Louis and I’m entirely grateful that I had everyone’s support in taking this leap into whatever may come. As for what exactly that is, I cannot really say with any true specificity, but I assume the adventure will continue and I am whole heartedly looking forward to it, chaos and all.