"I'm leaving, on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again..." -Peter, Paul, & Mary

You can't run away from your problems. Everybody knows that.

Sometimes, though... I want to drop everything and evaporate, carried away by the interstate. I wanna sink into the clean empty air that sweeps over corn fields, far away from urban streetlights and smothering exhaust.

But that's not true, either. As much as I enjoy visiting the quiet places in between, the places that comprise the majority of America, I sure as hell don't belong in any of them.

I'm twenty seven years old, I'm unhappy, and I'm afraid of what'll happen the day I turn thirty. On that birthday, I'll realize I've just spent fifteen years miserable, never having really tried to shoot the moon, never tried to live a dream, never taken a real risk. I'll have spent the so called best years of my life scraping by, keeping my head down, just living. Getting by. That's all.

That's not good enough for me.

My generation? We were all raised to think we could grow up and be rock stars, that we 're special, that we deserve something flashier and more glamorous. We all think we deserve to be famous. We're a bunch of spoiled little cunts, all of us crashing brutally into the ugly median of mediocre banality, doomed to be unsatisfied and angry about the stifling normalcy of our lives, our bathroom mirrors mocking us each and every morning.

I know how quixotic it is to think I could duck my Chicago world, dive under, and surface again in Los Angeles. Today I entertained the notion of leaving my every last family, friend, and posession behind, silenty, and take a bus. Away.

Just like an idiot teenager.

Having the life experience of paying bills, stuggling to get by, etc., I know I'd be stone cold broke within a month. I know I'd burn every bridge back home. My co-workers, many of whom I consider good friends, would look upon me with contempt. My family would be hurt and confused, unable to comprehend my ability to let them think I was dead. My roommates would never let me live down leaving them hanging with the rent, and they'd be loathe to consider extending the hand of friendship to me ever again.

That part about my family ain't true. I couldn't go without telling them, especially me mum. I love them.

It would be an ugly thing to be alone and zeroed in Los Angeles. It would test my mettle, break me down, crush me into rubble, and maybe even kill me. It would be a fire. But for once, I'd have made my stand. I'd have put myself in a position where everything mattered. Survival. My comfort zone would be a distant memory, obliterated. I would test myself, and I'd thrive or perish. I would find out if I'm worth a damn. My life would have meaning. I would truly be alive. For once.

That appeals to me. I have an itch to jump from my cliff and try to fly. Regret is an ugly horrible beast, and that motherfucker is sitting behing me, tickling my back, biding his time before he peels my skin away and chews through my guts.

The clock ticks.

I feel so tired today.

I'd better go buy and read a copy of Into The Wild and try to measure my heart before I go pulling any dumbfuckery.

"Picture me rollin'..." -Tupac Shakur 9:49 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm