Deliberate. Verb form. In my way of existing synonymous with lollygagging, procrastinating, hemming, hawing, dragging, lagging, and dallying with its fraternal twin dilly. I look it up and reassure myself that I am in fact putting careful consideration into where to park the sleeping car in the northernmost state at high altitude at the crest of autumn. Blue is a nice color but it doesn't look good on my lips, and experts advise against driving a car when you're dead.
Hem. Haw. Dilly. Dally. A six hour drive to a sleepy town just south of the Canadian border to skate on an outdoor rink surrounded by mountains and crisp, cold air, then wake up at dawn to shiver in the mist and tap on the glassy edges of the first freeze of a larch-encrusted lakeshore.
Am I obligated to do this simply because I dropped $210 on a new battery that is "guaranteed" to start the car in sub-zero temperatures?
Do I even like adventures? Nature? The great outdoors? Ice skating? Getting the fuck outta here to clear my head?
Wouldn't it be nicer to hide at home under the electric blanket for the next four days and pout about how my therapeutic progress has thrown me into a spiraling realization of just how much more shit I need to work on to get to that place of internal freedom?
Freedom.
Freedom is fluid. Affected by tides, moods, and the ebb and flow of contract gigs.
Freedom.
Fuck it.
Let's go.
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