When I first let on to my dad that I was having financial troubles, he suggested I move to Tucson and herd goats.
I am not kidding. And, I think he was sorta serious.
When I told him that sounded pretty lonely, he said that I could make friends with the illegal immigrants that escape over the border. “Do you know Spanish?” he asked. He knows I don’t know Spanish.
Maybe he just likes the idea of me dying in the desert better than in the snow.
Maybe I do too.
I imagine moving to Tucson and picture myself crawling in the desert like some dusty, dying cowboy from some old western, my glasses cracked and broken, my tiara askew, my elusive slacks all ragged, and one of my kangaroo shoes missing.
Only instead of seeing a mirage of water like the cowboy, I will see a mirage of my dead dreams.