its month three and i’m running out of blog titles. i guess i’ll just go with that.

My journal reads like this.

I’m listening to some Pinkerton on my i-pod, while sitting
in a posh chain-coffee shop, as tacky pop music blares above my earphones so the
girls that I am with can use the free wi-fi to check their e-mails and feel
some resemblance of home in this westernized setting.

I just realized that was a dooozy of a run-on sentence. My bad.
Please continue.

I’m tired. I start to wonder what the heck am I doing here
with eight months to go? I promised my friend Jonathan on the race that I
wouldn’t shave this month as a birthday present to the man with the best beard I
know. I have never owned such a women-repelling joke of a mustache as I do in
this moment. Actually I have never owned a mustache. A better description would be a combined twelve hairs that grace
my upper lip, half of which are shorter than others do to the fact that (this
next line may induce judging but please hold off til’ the end of the blog) I burnt
part of my mustache off while trying to light a rolled cigarette on night. But I still
can’t shave for another few days holding true to my promise with Jonathan.

I haven’t worn a clean pair of underwear in a week. I have
worn the same two long sleeve shirts for the majority of the month here. In Colorado
we are brand sluts, me included. I wear a cream North Face long sleeve shirt most
of the time. Not because it is more comfortable or appealing to the eye than
another brand might be, but because it has a small logo on my chest that lets
people now my status and what I wear. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a rant
about what clothes to bye or to make people feel guilty for what they own, I’m
saying this because I like North Face.

I wonder where I will lay my head when I come home. I wonder
how many people think I’m just doing this for travel sake. I’m sore from
sleeping in a tent this month. My bed is my sleeping pad. My blanket my sleeping
bag. My home my tent. Maybe that helps dispell that.

Mary Engelbreit is my mom’s favorite artist slash home-decorator-enthusiast.
She talks about “home is where the heart is.” I know, I know, I’m about to make
an analogy using Mary Engelbreit but every now and again you need to make your
mothers smile by putting them in your blogs so stick with me folks. Sometimes I have shake off the want of being
home. To be home and enjoy a tasting with Dan Walsh or an old Hitchcock film
with Jill McKay. For REI clothing, relaxing coffee shops, seeing baby Jude, and
even a night in my own bed. Often times that is where my heart is.