Here’s the new home. As you can see, the dogs, especially Clementine, are tickled pink to be living in the country.

I have a feeling they’re throwing parties when I’m not home. One vase looks like it’s been glued back together and the living room smells like Snausages and urine.

Motivation is a weird, fucked up thing. It’s been almost two months since I moved. Have I been moved to write? Well, yes in the sense that I intended to. No in the sense that that intention hasn’t translated itself to an update. But then last night, I received an email from a friend who moved to Austin to DJ. And then Zach (who lives in Austin) posts about how much of a asstwat I am, and well, the timing seemed right.

I say two degrees because well, it’s fucking two degrees here right now in South Dakota. Do I miss Phoenix? I’d be lying if I said no, but I would also be lying if I said yes. Who is is that said “Do I contradict myself. Very well then. I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.” Whitman? I am large. I’m 6′5″. And I do contain multitudes. Just two hours ago I ordered the appetizer sampler at Red Lobster.

Because that’s just how I roll In Sioux Falls.

You have questions. I understand. So do I. So let’s get to them.

So you’re in Sioux Falls?

Yes.

That’s in South Dakota?

Yes.

Seriously? You really moved there?

Yes. Fuck off.

For real though. Sioux Falls?

Alright, I’m going to punch you in the balls. Or the boobs.

OK, fine, You’re in Sioux Falls. What the hell are you doing?

I’m working for Red Bull. Now, there’s a craving to explain in what capacity I do so, but that will come. I will say this: working for Red Bull (at least for me) is like finding out there’s a company that someone started that reflects everything you believe in, and stand for, and desire, and think about when it’s Monday at 8:30 a.m. and you’re at work and you want to swallow your stapler and choke so you won’t have to work the next eight hours at a company that gives you shit because you need a half day because your kidneys are failing.

I mean, it’s ridiculous. Red Bull should be called Mr. Pinkerton, Inc. I wish I could say more. Maybe I can. I don’t know. Give me a back massage and we’ll see what happens.

Where are you living?

In the sticks. No, serious. I moved out into the country. I went from being able to spit on my neighbor in Phoenix to living in the middle of a bunch of corn fields. And you know what? It feels good. I bought a house with 1.5 acres in the middle of nowhere. Clementine and Simba the pups are smiling constantly, like Jack Nicholson when he did “Batman.” But they’re not as creepy. And Simba’s balls aren’t as old.

Let’s just move on.

What happened to the Horse Whisperer?

We got engaged, but she left me because I’m not communicative enough and I harbor resentement towards my parents, emotions which I unintentionally use to keep her at a distance. I’m kidding. Good times! 

The Horse Whisperer and I are together, albeit at a distance. She’s fucking awesome and well, if you’re a guy, you know how huge it is for a friend to tell you that a girl he’s dating can be described that way. If you’re a girl, and you think I’m describing her poorly, well, fair enough. Let’s say this: She’s intelligent, sophisticated, gorgeous, sexy, driven, passionate, a great dresser, an amazing kisser, unconditionally supportive, and altogether wonderful and amazingly ehchanted.

Happy now? Good.

She plans to move here in May. To Sioux Falls. For me. Wow is right.

Fucking start writing again.

That’s not a question.

Fine. Will you hurry up and fucking start writing again?

Honestly, I don’t know. I would say I’m busy, but that’s not an excuse. That just means I’m not making this blog a priority, and I think there’s a good reason for that.

Which is?

Mr. Pinkerton feels like another life to me. That’s the best way to explain it. Sure I could just pick up where I left off, plugging along here in Sioux Falls, but when I moved here, that seemed like a stopping point. At least as far as Mr. Pinkerton was concerned. Though it’s been just two months, Phoenix seems so far away. My broken engagement feels like it happened in 1986. That’s what started this blog - the fallout of a relationship and the desperate search for renewal.

The problem is that I’ve found that renewal. In me, and in the Horse Whisperer. So to keep writing here would be the same as putting on one of those pairs of jeans you keep but never wear. Sure, they fit, but you’ll never feel as comfortabe in them as you did when you bought them. Months have gone by, your hips or your waist had changed, and they no longer feel like they’re even your jeans. That’s almost how Pinkerton feels. There’s so much, shit, I don’t know, “stuff” here, that continuing on would almost continue a chapter that I would, quite frankly, like to close.

I hurt, I cried, I longed, I labored, I felt saddened, I contemplated, I felt remorse, I suffered. I wrote a book that was both painful and liberating. In the end, I learned that it’s about forgiving yourself, not those who seek forgiveness. I went backwards in order to go forwards, and now that I have the bike moving in right direction, and a girl who loves me so much as to push me, being constantly reminded of personal demons who no longer scare the bejesus out of you isn’t quite so appealing.

So you’re starting a new blog?

I don’t know. If I do, it’s largely because of the Horse Whisperer. She deserves to live alone in my thoughts, and not in tiny a studio apartment almongst all the messy roommates that dwelled in my head during 2006.

So this is goodbye?

God damnit, I thought we weren’t going to do this.

Can’t I just get one hug?

Fine.

OK, that was sort of awkward. It always feels weird to hug someone who you’re not going to make out with.

See what I’m talking about? We should have just shook hands and pounded fists.

Agreed. So hopefully I’ll hear from you soon?

You know I love you too much to stay away.