I’m not even sure which day this is. That’s how feral I’ve become.
The half and half is curdling in my coffee and I don’t care. That’s how feral I’ve become.
This, after spending the two nights before last night in hotels, ostensibly because it was too hot (92+) but really, in my mind, because the campgrounds we drove through were too creepy. It doesn’t take long, though, to go feral. Just spend a night in a $19.99 tent with a 70-lb dog and have it rain a bit, just enough to dampen things up.
As I sit here with my Coleman stove perked coffee in my camping kit red plastic cup, I think why aren’t I making this an “On Walden Pond” experience and writing great thoughts? Oh wait. Did Thoreau camp? Did Thoreau even write “On Walden Pond” or was it Walt Whitman? I ask my husband if…
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