I’m not too fond of camping, but I do love me some nature. Growing up with two male cousins made me particular to hiking. The last time I went hiking was in September. Me and a friend made an hour and a halfish drive up North to Guerneville, and trekked through the Armstrong State Reserve. By the time we passed a swarm of bees and my tits were sweating, I realized this was no walk in the park. The thing about hiking is usually, the higher you go, the harder it gets. Trails get more narrow and steep, and the air thinner. But the higher you go, the more beautiful the view at the top.
As much as San Francisco is known for its hills, I’ve never encountered so many mountains until I moved to New York. Since I’ve been here, it’s felt as if I encounter a new obstacle every week. Whenever I think it’s OK to feel relieved, another curveball gets thrown at me. If you put a Phantom v642 on this last one, you could name the pitch the “Lombard,” because it went one way … then another … then another … then, at the last minute another. This is why I can’t fuck with “signs,” and all that destiny shit sometimes. If it’s true that signs are everywhere, then all signs are telling me to get the fuck out of New York. But baby, I ain’t even started yet.
They say that God will never give you more than you can handle. If that’s the case, then He needs to quit gassing me up already. Because I’m tired. Fucking exhausted. But thanks for thinking so highly of me. Don’t worry, I have no plans of stopping. I know this is only a test, and victory isn’t too far ahead. It’s so close. I can feel it. And I can’t wait to enjoy the view from the top.