… and go.

In my bag, in the airport is my phone. I’ve turned it on between flights. There is a text message from someone I don’t know, who wants to spend time with me.

Oddly enough, based solely on his pictures and a brief one paragraph description of himself, I want to spend time with him, too.

I have a date.

We’re in the Atlanta airport, my drugged out doggie and me. We’re waiting for our connecting flight. All I’ve eaten today is coffee and I’m thinking about swiping some of her doggie downers, even though they’re making her pant.

Thoughts that cross through my mind include, but are not limited to: how will I get my 70 plus pounds of luggage from one place (i.e. the airport) to the other place (i.e. my sublet in Silverlake) with a drugged out, panting dog in my purse? How am I going to explain to my date that I don’t have a car in Los Angeles? What happens if the date dress gets stained, stretched out, or smelly? And will my panting dog ever forgive me for drugging her and zipping her in a bag for ten hours?

This is all making me very nervous.

It feels like the wheels of fate are turning.

When the wheels of fate start turning, all you can really do is hope you packed well.

As for me, considering I slammed fifty pounds of clothing, books, and a date dress into on rolling back-pack suitcase and the inebriated love of my life and her bone in a purse, I’d say I packed pretty damn well.

1 thought on “… and go.

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