So, I’m running out of excuses to stop being a complete asshole and drag myself out of this pit of inertia yet again.  I’m still waiting on my federal tax returns — like, it’ll be direct-deposited, but I would kind of like to recommence homelessness with the money I’m banking on having actually in my bank account.

I still need to see an orthopedic surgeon for, uh, both ankles, both knees, both wrists, one shoulder and my back, even though I’m about 90% sure that they will, again, pat me kindly and inform me I’m fucked, and also please give them money.  But I did get the creepy mole on my back burnt/frozen (?) off, and biopsy confirmed it was in fact just creepy and not cancer.

Otherwise I still need to acquire a folding bike (anybody know any damn thing about ’em?  I love my Surly baby so much, but it’s impractical for travel) and a decent (but relatively bare-bones) 4g laptop (since most long-distance Amtrak routes don’t have WiFi).

And I need stupid shit like a haircut, and a non-torn to pieces cute skirt to complete my one pair of jeans, one pair of shorts, one skirt and a couple neutral shirts and sleep stuff traveling wardrobe.

So I know I’m going to DC first of all, because, well, Amtrak routes out of Florida are limited.  Probably but not definitely I’ll head northeast again, because home.  Then Chicago — maybe a day or two back to Milwaukee via bus — then the long haul to Washington.  Touch base with my friend(s) there, but then I want to go down the fucking Pacific coast, see friends in San Francisco I haven’t seen in a decade or more, see my favorite dickhead Jeff in SoCal, and then head back to Seattle.

I’m terrified.  I’m not terrified of being homeless again — I’ve realized that no, yeah, that actually is the only time I’ve ever been happy in my life.  But I do not, in fact, have limitless savings — very, very far from — and Jesus fucking Christ, the thought of getting another job that I hate in yet another new city, in which I am sick with dread getting up every morning, for nothing — for no family-mine, for no hobbies, for nothing except just plodding along and surviving for no reason except taking breaths for another day, another month, another forty years.

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