Greg hates how I write, but we Make Big Plans Anyway.

I sit on a couch in ratty, stretched out gym clothes. The cut is low (as if there's something to see) and the need for flexible, breathable, moveable clothes during today's "workout" is the need for Novocain during the removal of a splinter. My head is full and my stomach is empty; I've been daydreaming about traveling the country in a secondhand fifth-wheel and nightdeaming about the starving, weeping ghost of my dead grandpa. In my dream I hold his crying body and he's curled up like a little tiny baby, he says to me, "Sunshine, I'm already dead, I'm already dead, I'm already dead."

Greg and I discuss the new plan as we strain martinis into mismatched glasses with a plastic cup and a pot lid. "I hope you know," he says, "that whatever vehicle we get, I'm going to nerd the shit out of it. Like, I'm going to add batteries and solar panels." I look at him blankly, instructing him to add an automatic martini shaker. We establish that there is one already. It's called throwing it into reverse and drive a few times, back and forth, back and forth.

We are attempting to solidify how we are going to pay for this. I suggest massive craigslistage along the way, picking up, like, a fence building gig in Florida and some kind of banquet serving in Nebraska. He suggests a blog and sponsors and photos, and we establish that the planning of big things should be documented with words, seeing as words in minds are cognitive, transparent, illusive, and words on screens will one day dissolve or burn out or become not found, sure, but in a long long time, like how long it takes to cook a burrito in my 1985 microwave or how long I should have spent on the elliptical.

I have deja vu now, pretty hard actually, but the weird part of this deja vu is I am passionately uncertain about what will happen next.