Outta here, I am.

O-u-t-t-a h-e-r-e.

Before something breaks off.

For the safety of those around me and myself.


To think.
To be still.

To drive fast.
(when I think I can get away with it.)
To play car music at eardrum bleeding levels.

I am outta here.

I suggested to a friend I might be headed her way.
I have a friend in Austin I might look up.
or I simply might just make it my mission to hit every Chik Fila between here and the Hill Country and call it good.

I don't know.

I don't have a map.
I'm not packed.
I haven't been to the bank.
I haven't told my kids
and I just got some form of acquiescence from my significant other before we got out of bed this morning. Or I assume it is acquiescence--he's out checking the oil and the tire pressure as I type this.

I figure if I have no clear aim when letting go of the rubber band stretched tauter and tauter between my fingers over the last few months then I can't be disappointed with it's eventual target.

Worst case scenario:
I'll need a new rubber band when I come back.

I have those.