I get my advice from the advertising world

At what point do you throw the whiskey out the window and bellow (to no one in particular), "I'll abide no more of this tomfoolery. I'm moving to Montana!" Question mark.

Just do it. Just saying?

How do you come to that decision? What pinnacle of despair must one reach? Hypothetically, of course. Pinnacles being scarce among the sandstone and basaltic cliffs of this coast.

If I were to chart it out... but F. is opposed to time lines and plans. I could learn from this. He knows how plans make God's trigger finger jumpy.

I, however, like to lay out plans and can get easily carried away on a daydream, a detailed unraveling into the next 20 years where (on this very day, decades hence) I am scheduled to be sitting in a rocking chair on a front porch that simultaneously overlooks mountains and oceans while also being located in the remote middle of the United States. If all goes according to plan. I believe I also will be wearing burlap sacks and carrying a crossbow. Again, if all goes according to plan.

I'm baffled by the steps that lead up to a decision. I feel like I've stumbled into most things I've done and realized only later a decision was made. Most plans fall apart (God's got his revolver in the "at ready" position that scares police officers). Or they change direction in a way fit to give you whiplash. The plans I make are actually terrible, but they stack up nice (confession: I was once addicted to playing Tetris) and they do make sense. Truly.

I hate making decisions because I always choose the wrong line at a grocery store: behind the crazy coupon lady, next to the man in the kimono who pays for everything with pennies and rusted nails, in front of the meth addict on a bad day, with the only cash register operated by a foot pedal and a monkey. Clearly, I should not be entrusted with making decisions. I will step into a mess. But it's this sort of attitude, this fear of risk and change, that makes it possible to turn gray with age before you're thirty-five. I'm sure it also leads to kleptomania, hygiene issues and the inability to remember how to spell hygiene without computer spell check tools.

Stuff happens. Or, to be even more passive, incidents have been said to occur in altered ways.

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Can I get more vague? Ironic since only this morning I called out a police person for uttering something along the lines of, "We are working to establish a format in such a way that, down the road, we can better understand how to approach the situation and further our investigation." I started cackling once he said the word "format."

I'm trying to figure out how to lead an interesting life, having recently realized I will die (while I realize it, I still don't believe it). My mortality is like math: something I acknowledge must exist, but also something I can't ever really comprehend. There's so much out there I could do. I'm tired of doing things and staying places because it's comfortable (and therefore easy). Complacency will not be tolerated. Beatings will continue until morale improves. Etc.

Just a thought.