And though it is a start to this grand adventure, this park reeks of bad vibes and even worse looks. I'm stranded in Yuppie Hell, by the looks of things. If the tucked in polos or the frisbee golf court didn't give it away, the chained off private island with heavy duty security cameras for formal events made things pretty evident. Perhaps I'm early, but it looks like the families who entered the Brady Bunch Lookalike contest are beginning to gather. The California heat is beginning to get to me, and I'm just now noticing how big of a problem this bag is going to be. I've packed entirely too much.
With hopes of spending a few years on the road, its not looking good that my back is beginning to spasm from the weight of my pack not even an hour into the trip. Something is wrong.
Maybe its the trip. I'm not built to physically handle such a thing, I fear. All the signs are pointing to it. I'm almost 25 years old and I've had 9 surgeries on my back. I have arthritis in both hands from a childhood of skateboarding and breaking wrists / hands, rifle spinning, writing, living on a computer, and being a professional desk jockey. The military ruined my ankles, knees, and hips. Genetics have plagued me with terrible skeletal structure and a fragile physique, and my back & neck sound like bubble wrap when I crack them. On top of everything else, I was diagnosed with malnutrition and muscle decomposition back in Columbus, and I'm 5'9 and weigh 135 lbs. The past 4 years of my life can be summed up as a deeply depressed session of sedentary nothingness...I do not know if I can handle this.
And before these terrible thoughts of mine decide to plant root for the day as they certainly love to do, I'll stay proactive and figure out what's next. I think this place is called Florin, and its probably the last place I want to be. I foresee police interactions on my very first night -- but I can't leave if I dunno where I'm headed, even though I seem to be intruding upon a picturesque paradise that's bound to bring trouble. I need time to think.
A small child just asked her parents "What is that??", in reference to me refilling my water bottle at a public fountain.
I think I understand how people end up sleeping in some of the most random spots. You search and search and search for the perfect spot, thinking that some magical place is going to pop and and scream and advertise about just how hospitable it is. You think that if ya search long and hard enough, you'll find a place that'll give ya the perfect night of sleep. But it doesn't work that way. At least not yet. What DID happen was I grew so tired and weary and my feet ached and my back was screaming about how close it was to failing and every tiny little vibration wanted nothing more than to sleep. And so its not carelessness that chooses those seemingly odd spots that tramps choose to sleep. Its absolute darkness at 5am, fatigue, and desperation to get off yer feet that motivates ya. And that opens so many places to sleep.
Like right against a edge of thick bushes.Where I wake up to a group of older folk in tucked in polos and slacks pointing at me and whispering.
And I make my escape before they were able to eat my trampy ass for picking up on their little SECRET the day before: The squirrels will eat peanuts from your hand and kick it with ya while you get stoned.
With hopes of spending a few years on the road, its not looking good that my back is beginning to spasm from the weight of my pack not even an hour into the trip. Something is wrong.
Maybe its the trip. I'm not built to physically handle such a thing, I fear. All the signs are pointing to it. I'm almost 25 years old and I've had 9 surgeries on my back. I have arthritis in both hands from a childhood of skateboarding and breaking wrists / hands, rifle spinning, writing, living on a computer, and being a professional desk jockey. The military ruined my ankles, knees, and hips. Genetics have plagued me with terrible skeletal structure and a fragile physique, and my back & neck sound like bubble wrap when I crack them. On top of everything else, I was diagnosed with malnutrition and muscle decomposition back in Columbus, and I'm 5'9 and weigh 135 lbs. The past 4 years of my life can be summed up as a deeply depressed session of sedentary nothingness...I do not know if I can handle this.
And before these terrible thoughts of mine decide to plant root for the day as they certainly love to do, I'll stay proactive and figure out what's next. I think this place is called Florin, and its probably the last place I want to be. I foresee police interactions on my very first night -- but I can't leave if I dunno where I'm headed, even though I seem to be intruding upon a picturesque paradise that's bound to bring trouble. I need time to think.
A small child just asked her parents "What is that??", in reference to me refilling my water bottle at a public fountain.
I think I understand how people end up sleeping in some of the most random spots. You search and search and search for the perfect spot, thinking that some magical place is going to pop and and scream and advertise about just how hospitable it is. You think that if ya search long and hard enough, you'll find a place that'll give ya the perfect night of sleep. But it doesn't work that way. At least not yet. What DID happen was I grew so tired and weary and my feet ached and my back was screaming about how close it was to failing and every tiny little vibration wanted nothing more than to sleep. And so its not carelessness that chooses those seemingly odd spots that tramps choose to sleep. Its absolute darkness at 5am, fatigue, and desperation to get off yer feet that motivates ya. And that opens so many places to sleep.
Like right against a edge of thick bushes.Where I wake up to a group of older folk in tucked in polos and slacks pointing at me and whispering.
And I make my escape before they were able to eat my trampy ass for picking up on their little SECRET the day before: The squirrels will eat peanuts from your hand and kick it with ya while you get stoned.
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