Two bucks gets you the guy.

Actually, two bucks potentially gets you the guy. Well, it gets you that much closer to meeting the guy, that is if you want to put yourself out there and then go the extra step when you see someone who catches your eye. Yes, my friends, a tall cup of calm at Starbuck's, which costs about two dollars, plus a buck tip, is the way to meet a guy. (I guess three bucks gets you the guy.) And no, the double meaning of a tall cup of decaffeinated tea called “calm” is not lost on me.

If it's not obvious, this is post 2 of my eating-out adventures, and, as it turns out, Starbuck's, a previously untapped resource, is teaming with cute guys. Since my last blog post, to get myself out of the house, among other places I’ve gone, I've hung out at a different Starbuck's in a few different neighborhoods at least four times, and between those four times there's been at least 6 guys I've seen who, just on looks alone, I would have let put a little sugar in my coffee.

True, true, I'm totally on the: I've-got-to-get-to-know-you track before I get a little sugar, let alone a cup of morning-after coffee, and I haven't drank coffee regularly in over 12 years, but with hot-guy ratio numbers like those, having only rotated between three different Starbuck's, and having gone on a different time of day and a different day each time, yet each time the boys abound, I’m just saying count me in. My advice to any single person: learn to like coffee, or learn to just buy anything that gets sold in a coffee house, because these joints are apparently the quiet, less obvious, place to meet and greet choice meat.

Did I just objectify the coffee houses of the world? Maybe. But are you really that disappointed in me? Have you not called a bar a meat market? Well, as I’m now sharing, coffee joints are simply kinder, gentler greet markets. No one really wants to disturb anyone else, so that extra inch does present itself as a bit of a mile in order for a meaningful exchange to happen—for two people to actually start taking—but trust me when I say it, people are mostly open, man, hoping some stranger will engage them.

Whether they are longing for just a quick conversation (craving human interaction), hoping for a new friend, a new love, or a new recipe, these folks are all there in the first place. People are at bars, at coffee shops, at libraries, at public parks, or wherever, so they can get in their time out where others will be and thanks to Starbuck’s (for turning coffee into a pastime), we all have a way to pass some time with others in a welcoming setting. The proverbial sign on the door says: Come on in. Sit a bit. Everyone here just wants to be around others, too.

I feel the need to remind that my reasons for being out and about primarily stem from my need to get myself out of a condo that feels so unlike a home that it makes me squirmy. No joke. I don’t regret moving, because everything feeds into a bigger picture—even if the view is blurry before it gets clear—but I am a little pissed that for some time now, I’ve not felt the sanctuary of being ‘at home’ at both my old place and this new place.

This edgy thing, where my physical home is concerned, has been going on for over 2 years, ever since those buttheads moved in next door at the old place. That’s why I have to ask myself: Has this unrest, this impatience, been sent to me by those I have yet to meet, as a way to get me out more, to do more, to get me more involved so that life’s serendipities can be unveiled? I hope so.

Those Universe Notes (the emails I get) sent me a message that said something to that effect, and added that feelings of uncertainly are reminders that we have options, so I’ll take that. I’ll also take what my new friend Cruz said: “If we don’t take the initiative to make the changes in life that we are meant to experience, life takes the initiative for us.”

But if the Universe and Cruz haven’t gotten my back on this one, if their message to me isn’t the truth, and the reverse is true, that it isn’t something outside of me getting me to where I need to be, but is instead something inside of me, unconscious to me, then something is gurgling up within me and, like it or not, I’m probably about to crash into an emotional glacier.

The thing is, when so much of my life has been in question with jobs, finances, etc., home was the one thing I thought I had nailed (well, it was nailed before the bad neighbors and the move). Now home is the thing I’m missing the most and I am a bit confused. How can I feel so powerful from this move, and so at home in my heart spiritually, yet I feel so strange in my physical surroundings?

I know that people and places carry their own energies, which can both positively and negatively affect us, but no matter how much a place can hold the energies of fights, depression, etc., of the previous inhabitants or the surrounding occupants (neighbors), I also know that when we’ve done the work we need to do, to heal our psychic wounds, we aren’t as affected by the negative energy that may surround us.

That’s why I am wondering what’s going on? Why am I so edgy in this place? Has the transitional nature of this place become that overwhelming?

Do you hear me, universe!? I’d like a “welcome home” again, so let’s go. Help me understand what lesson(s) I am to learn from this transition so we can bring me to my new physical home, one that matches how at home I feel in my heart. I can’t keep trying to figure out new errands to run just so I can get out of this dark house.

Anyway, on a lighter note, the other reason I’ve been getting out a lot is because I recently reposed a few questions to myself: Why can’t I bring into my everyday life that same bit of adventure and zeal I’ve experienced while traveling? Why can’t I be just as open and engaging whether I am at home or on vacation? Why would I be any different at home than those times I felt more like myself because I was away? What was I away from and what makes me more stifled at home?

My answer to these questions? I decided that there is absolutely no reason I shouldn’t be living the full me, no matter where I am, instead of waiting to be that full me just on vacation. And, I asked: Why can’t I go out as much as I want when I want whether I have someone to go out with me or not?

Well, there is one reason I can’t go out as much as I want, and that’s a lack of available funds. Getting a bite out does cost more than the bite in, hence the inexpensive cup of calm and the one drink and a salad minimum when going out to my here and my there. Cheap route or not, the colorful characters I've encountered, who are continuing to collect, are so worth the getting out part.

You know what else I’ve found out about myself? I always knew I loved people. I did. But now I’m positively schnockered by them. This going out by myself more, meeting new people, it is all becoming a bit of an addiction and it’s had the effect of making me drunk happy. It’s like I’m mainlining strangers and there’s no down side.

There have been some drugs, some people, I’ve had to say “no” to. Let me explain… Have you ever been so impassioned by something that the people around you can feel it? They are, therefore, attracted to your light and want to smoke what you got. Well, if so, then you’d understand when I say that because I’ve had so much fun meeting new people I am drawing a lot of people into me. But, not everyone I meet is someone I necessarily want to smoke out with. (I’ve got no idea where this drug analogy is coming from.)

For example, during one of my runs I met this gal out walking. I was on the cool down portion of my run/walk, and we ended up walking and chatting for a half of an hour. There was something about this older woman, who I would say was in her early 60s, which indicated to me that she might be a drain.

She kept asking me for my advice on things, really personal things, and while I appreciate that we are all here to learn from each other, there are some things and some circumstances which require a bit of time and decorum before we start to fully lean into someone. I felt the weight of her lean within 3 minutes and it seemed like it would be too much weight for me to carry for a stranger in the long run.

Another example, is that during one of my coffee shop visits I met a delightful and interesting woman. She, at almost 60 years of age, and being a product of the 60s, had a truck full of experience I’d have loved to have continued to soak in. But, as a twist of circumstance would have it, this gal, with her John Lennon sunglasses, her wavy, blonde hair, and her white t-shirt and faded 1980s jeans, would not be someone I would be hanging out with again. Nope. Just like I’d done with the other gal, I had to walk away and pretend I didn’t hear her say, “We should exchange numbers and get a drink some time.”

Why would I turn down the possibility of an additional engaging exchange with a fellow artist, a comrade creative and gung ho conversationalist? I walked away because I found out that this gal works where I work (too close for comfort).

That doesn’t make sense? How about if I tell you that there is so much bureaucracy and bullshit where I work that if anyone’s name is used in the same sentence with the word “scandal” you’re jacked if you have any association with that person and anyone else finds out.

When did I ever care if someone had scandal surrounding them, especially if they are the one using their own name and the word scandal in the same sentence? I started caring the first week I started working where I work, when I realized that if I didn’t care, if I wasn’t careful (about everything), if I didn’t protect myself, watch my step, watch other people’s steps, I’d be one of the people with the word “scandal” next to her name.

Seriously, I thought back when I worked in restaurants and bars that the rumor mill and the back-stabbing was bad. Restaurants ain’t noth’n compared to the stank of taint that hangs in the atmosphere where I work now. One move in any direction that is even slightly note worthy, bad or good, and bam, that’s your label, people are talking, and that label will probably follow you for the rest of your days at this place. How could it not? There are so many lifers, 7-20 years into it folks, and just as many slackers, that the two camps are constantly clashing, looking for takers to join their side. They gotta label you before you can be a part of their gang.

Gangs have rules, you know. Some rules I can follow. Others, not so much. What I do, whether I can or will follow the rules or not, pretty much depends on what will make it easier on me.

Hanging out with Chloe and her fiancé on Labor Day weekend for a BBQ, with some of the gang members (dinner-out participants) from my cheetah slut night, reminded me that sometimes I refuse to play by the rules when it comes to my personal choices. Every one of Chloe’s fiancé’s friends are awesome, and I mean stellar, but age is a gang, too, and when I am with this gang (who are all mid/late 20 somethings), this older, but not so old girl, who loves the 40 year-old skin she’s in, can’t follow all the gang’s rules.

That’s why, when, after an amazing shared hodge-podge of food and great company, the boys started playing video games and the girls settled in to watch them, I couldn’t stay. Sure, I played Frogger and Pacman at the skating rink when I was a kid, and I watched some boys play Asteroids, but I never liked it. I only did it to be near the boys. Now that I am 40, if I don’t like it, and my pay check don’t depend on it, I ain’t suck’n it up.

So, while I was sad to go because I wanted to hang out with Chloe more, I was happy to leave because I love how 40 feels. 40 to me is being the designer of your own time and not having to apologize. I am not going to design time that revolves around video games, no matter how nice the people playing and watching them are. (Did you hear that, universe? Don’t you dare send me a man who plays video games!)

The new design I’d gone with for my evening, after the Labor Day BBQ with Chloe, her fiancé, and his crew, was to get a glass of vino at yet another one of my favorite local wine bars. That’s where I met Steve. Now, don’t get your hopes up. Steve, while an attractive older man, was not someone I saw/see myself dating. But how bad ass is it that I chose to go out and I’d ended up having a great time having a very intelligent conversation with a smart, clever man instead of watching boyz play video games?

How extra bad ass is it that I figured out that I’d actually met Steve before? Much in the same way I met Watt, because I wanted to pet his dogs on a day I was stressed, I’d gravitated towards Steve’s dog about 6 months ago while work stressed and meeting friends after work for a de-stressing/post-work drink. (The dogs have it when it comes to releasing stress for me.) Steve was sitting in front of a coffee shop (go figure) with his dog, and up I’d walked to pet his dog. That’s how I put it together. Steve had a picture of his dog in his wallet, showed me, and then when I recognized the dog I remembered meeting him, the man, before, too.

The bartender serving Steve and me was also familiar. I figured out that he used to be a waiter at this vino spot and, when last I’d been there, he’d waited on my friend Joan and me. That past night, to my delight, as this waiter/bartender scraped the table cloth clean for Joan and me, when I’d remarked that I’d always wanted a crumber (a table scraper), he gave me his. (Cool dude.)

The only person I hadn’t met before was the bartender’s older brother. The bartender’s brother was a really nice man. I love that after a while had passed, while I was talking to both him and to Steve, instead of just buying me a drink, the brother first asked, “Are you having a good time?” When I answered, “Yes,” that’s when the second glass of wine came. (Smooth.)

Now that I think of it, there were more people I hadn’t met before that night who I also conversed with. There was the cute ass guy, who was dating a blondie who might have been too young for him, and there was this cute ass guy’s cousin, who was also cute but not as cute. (I’m so 12 years old with the word “cute”.) They were fun to talk to for a bit, but the blondie seemed to want to go somewhere else where she could have the two boys all to her self, and away they went.

Then there was this other cute-er ass guy who I flirted with on the way to going to the bathroom. I used the oldest trick in the book. I asked him, “Is your name Jim? Did I meet you at Jane’s party a couple years back?” Look, I was feeling frisky, he was a looker, and the best way to see if you have a taker is to give the guy the opening (the fake recognition, the whatever), then see where he takes it. He took it back to his girlfriend. But, I love that I’ve been working my mojo—that I’ve been bumping it up a notch to put myself out there with people and that I have been remaining, as Ava would say, open to the sky.

That same Labor Day weekend, the next afternoon, I was open to my refried beans and salad addiction. So I went to get me some. Per usual, when this addiction hits, I sit at the bar of one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. That time a guy, who was handsome enough, but not my type, sat next to me. He reminded me of one of those perfectly coiffed white-boy republicans.

Not that there is anything wrong with a republican, or being white, but when a guy takes more time than me to get himself together, or it appears that way, he’s not my thing. Look, I grew my bangs out because dealing with (blow-drying/flat ironing) bangs was entirely too much effort for me. Therefore a stiff, coifed, repub… ‘Nuf said. Plus, he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

Some of my going out adventures have included the company of others, as well. Remember my new friend from Sweden/Switzerland? The one I met in Target? It’s Switzerland; that’s where she’s from. Mystery solved. Anyway, we had a nice walk and talk hang out session. She’s such a neat gal, and she gave me an amazing tip on a place for a great, cheap, Chinese massage. (My back so needs it!)

Do you also remember when I said, "It was a pleasure going to a movie and to lunch with the girl Chloe and I met on our last girl’s outing" in one of my earlier blog posts? Well, this gal, we’ll call her Cella, she and I have been hanging out. Turns out, we’re very similar creatures in many ways so it’s been fun, this new friendship. (Every one likes someone just like them, there’s even a Latin saying close to that effect.)

So far Cella and I have taken advantage of our city and we’ve done the beach cruzer bike ride thing. We’ve also gone out-out, like back to the meat market bar where Chloe and I first met Cella. Cella met a cute boy she was interested in on one of our nights out. We’ll see how that goes. (That’s not my story to tell right now.)

I, on the other hand, being a great wing woman for Cella, and wanting to give her the chance to provide her full attention to her cute boy that night, didn’t meet a boy I liked. Instead, I chatted up some guy who made me eventually want to find a Q-Tip to force into my ears so I could bludgeon my brain and pass out.

Alright, he wasn’t’ that bad. He was interesting enough to talk to, but at the point in the conversation when he said, “I expect my girlfriend to wear…” I wanted to ram a Q-tip up his left nostril and inform him that he doesn’t get to expect any woman to wear anything. The only thing he said that didn’t scream insecure chauvinist pig was when he told me that he thought I was cute, and, when referring to my choice in arm jewelry, said, “All that shit on your wrist made me think you had attitude, and I liked it.”

Yeah, dude. You got that right. I’ve been wearing a thousand bracelets on my wrist, since before it was in style, mixing leather, sliver, and beads like only an artist dares to not match, and I do have attitude, so thanks for noticing. But, I can promise you that I don’t call what’s on my arm shit, and that this attitude of mine is going to keep you from getting anywhere with me with that mad-at-life attitude of yours. But, again, thanks for playing.

Next up? A beautiful Italian/white boy mix of a man who I could have gotten lost in his eyes. It was a Friday evening. My work week had sucked, BIG time (no surpiz there), and I had needed to get out. I wanted lobster bisque to bury the new bosses bullying in. Cella was supposed to join me. Then, she wasn’t able to meet up. I went anyway.

ENTER: Antonio. Hello, handsome. Talk to me Anthony.

I needed a seat at the bar. So did Anthony. We waited. We talked. I got even more lost in his eyes. I imagined kissing his lips. Two seats opened up. We sat. We talked some more. He asked for my number. He called me on the next Sunday afternoon. I went to hang out with him. Then, crash goes the burn of Mr. Handsome.

He’s poor. He’s a student. Yet, he’s got this serious apartment where I had to sign in to even get into the building. Then I’m sitting on his white leather couches, next to an expensive 6’ long fish tank, and his story is changing, changing, and changing, and I don’t know what his up from his down is, or why he can afford to drop cash on art, as he’s telling me and wants to buy some of mine (and I can see original art all over his walls), yet he can’t afford to entertain me outside of his 8th floor, high-rise, ocean view apartment.

Really? You lost your ATM card last night? No, wait. Your ATM account was frozen because you forgot to transfer money? No, wait. The cops showed up because you couldn’t pay your cab driver? What?

After a bit, all I know is I don’t care if a man is rich or poor, if he’s a student or has family money. All I care is if he’s a straight shooter. Soon, I don’t trust this Anthony’s up or down or his sideways. Something is fishier than the tank.

Plus, he kept asking me, “You’re one of those smart girls, aren’t’ you?” That’s when I decided, that whether I was smarter than him or not, as he kept insinuating that I was, that wasn’t the point. Plenty of people don’t know what we know and we don’t know what they know. That doesn’t make anyone more or less intelligent than we are. However, having common ground to share, when it comes to each person’s intellectual repertoire, can be just as important as having the same religion/spiritual beliefs.

What I am saying is, it’s fine to have different interests, but sometimes, as was the case with beautiful Anthony, when two people don’t share, or haven't sought out similar studies in life, be those street smarts and/or book smarts, and/or haven't collected some of the same data (trivial, spiritual, intellectual, or base), the places their conversations can go are limited rather than limitless.

Did that stop me from making out with Anthony? What do you think? I admit it. I had to know how his lips would taste.

To my credit, or discredit, I didn’t start making out with him until I had an exit plan. Once I knew we weren’t going to re-invent pizza together, I texted Cella to fake rescue me, to say she needed me ASAP. I hadn’t done that in years, but I thought the whole my-friend-needs-me-to-help-her-pick-up-her-car thing was a smash hit on my end and I am a firm believer in the white lie to save someone’s ego upon exiting.

Then, once I knew I was leaving, I gave in to his advances. I kissed the boy and I liked it. It was good. He told me I had pretty hair and that I was beautiful, more than once—on both accounts. Sure, he’d started drinking his beers before I even got there and was liquored up enough that he probably just wanted in my pants, but I was going with the flattery. I felt safe. He wasn’t an aggressive guy, at all. He was fine, just a lame/tame liar who wanted to see me naked while he was complimenting my hair. Since we both knew that wasn’t going to happen, the kissing was enough.

As I was leaving, I think somewhere in his buzz he knew what was going on, that there was no friend in need. But, he still managed to try and smooth talk me one more time. He said, “This could be the start of something really good.” Then he kissed me again just before I closed the door behind me.


Truthfully, I wanted to hear the nice things he had to say to me. Most of the men I've dated or ended up in a relationship with never told me they thought I was pretty or beautiful. That sometimes hurt. My parents never told me or my siblings that we were lookers, either. Their generation didn't know that might matter.

To both ends, when I was younger I never thought I wasn't cute enough, but I did question if I was that kind of pretty every girl wants to be to a man. Now, even if I am not hearing it from the man I’m with, I don’t question it as much. I realize that kind of pretty comes more from the inside than it does from the outside, and to everyone who really sees us, who already knows our insides, we’re beautiful. The rest of them, those who we don’t know, who don’t know us? They’ll learn that about us, too.

Still, there was that point in my late twenties where I wasn't fine enough with my looks so I stopped wearing makeup for a couple of years to push myself into learning to love my face as it is. It worked. I applied the same principle to learning to love my body, whether I am carrying extra weight or not. I just kept standing naked in the mirror until I appreciated everything I saw.

I’d advise every woman to do that. It’s an incredible thing when you realize that these vessels for our energy, these bodies we’re borrowing to carry our energy around in, are magnificent. Simply divine design.

Still, I don't know a woman alive who doesn't want to hear she's beautiful to a man, any man, even if she's a super model. So when Anthony let the compliments flow, I put a big cup under the faucet. I got my fill. More, please. And again, thanks.

Then when Anthony told me I was giving him a boner, me gots to go. That’s when me went, and when me started to miss Watt the whole way driving home. (Duh!) Watt would never have used the word “boner”. True, Watt is younger, so age is a factor, as Anthony is mid-30s and the word boner is so 1980s. But, also, Watt, has class.

Watt was raised with a grandfather who told him that talking on a cell phone, or reading a text, when in the company of others is rude. A guy who knows that doesn’t tell a girl he hardly knows that she’s giving him a boner. The guy who doesn’t get cell phone etiquette, which is far too many men, as I’ve noticed, they just text and talk away, thinking that just because time has changed and has given them a phone to carry around in their ass pocket, instead of one bolted to a wall where they can twist their fingers up in the cord, they can ditch basic manners. (Not true.)

Cella told me I’m still missing Watt because I’m still mad at Watt that he wasn’t ready. She’s right. (Damn you, Watt.) Shoot, damn me. It’ll be interesting if this blog ever gets big enough to make it to Watt’s world and Watt figures out he meant more to me than I might have ever let on. That doesn’t embarrass me, though. Good men are few and far between and I don’t mind continuing to admit how much I’d adored him. (I really don’t see the shame in praising anyone regardless of the situation.)

And, I’ve said it before, I'm going to keep missing Watt until I meet another great guy, just as wonderful as him in all the important ways, but even more wonderful than him in the most important way. Watt made my top 5 list of awesome men I've met/dated. He was up there. But the man who is going to be number 1 on this list, the One, the last one I've yet to meet, unlike Watt, that One, he’ll be ready for me.

Anthony wasn’t the only man I met that Friday evening. Once Anthony left, to get on with his original Friday night plans, and I still had lobster bisque to eat, another gentleman had sat on the opposite side of me. It was with this gentleman that I’d had one of the best conversations of my life.

This mid/late 50s fellow, who reminded me a little of Victor Kiriakis from “Days of our Lives”, was a computer programmer. He was also a musician. And, he was witty. I feel silly to even write it, because it may sound pretentious, but this Victor and I had one of those conversations people talk about having, about life, art, physics, music, energy, all of it, but rarely actually have. I was enthralled. I’d have given him my number, just to talk to him again, but because he was a bit older I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression.

Come to think of it, I need a fake boyfriend. If I want to just talk, to not exchange numbers, or exchange whatever, I’m going to have to start using the fake “boyfriend” buffer block better and sooner.

Anyway, since I am on a roll, reporting all the adventures I’ve been having, I’m going to throw in an event I attended. I went to an absolutely amazing backyard party. I’m talking a 30 person wine/dinner party with a white-linen clothed table, placed under a grey tent, which was equipped with strung clear lights, where edible white-chocolate and mint name place holders set the scene for a menu that ranged from appetizers of fermented black garlic and gourmet cheeses to starters of a tomato, saffron, and garlic soup, which preceded a main course mixed with the likes of a yak slider, with wild boar bacon, to roasted vegetable enchiladas accompanied by a creamy tomatillo sauce.

The absolute best part? This dinner party took place in the back yard of my friend Fae’s husband’s aunt’s house. This aunt, who is regular folk, like me, knew how to take care of business. Man, I loved that. No one in attendance was uptight or hoity toity. The rules were: Don’t break a glass or you won’t be invited back, and, have fun. The repeat invitees, they each had their own wine glasses with their names etched and all. Tell me that isn’t awesome.

Of course the whole time I was thinking that everyone was completely chill, and that I was ready to be invited back again, I was hoping it wouldn’t happen, that my natural klutz wouldn’t surface. I’m the wine glass breaker, sober, so I was feeling like a bull ready to break.

That’s about it for my eating out adventures. Well, almost it. Yesterday, I got so jacked by the energy in this condo, and started to feel physically suffocated by the lack of natural light, I couldn’t get out quick enough. Once again, I resulted to my refried beans and salad addiction.

In I went. One stool at the end of the bar was waiting for me. The stool was next to a tall, fit, strong jawed, handsome man, who I’ve already mentioned and who we are calling Cruz. (Cruz rode his beach cruiser to get the restaurant so I like the name Cruz for him). Within seconds, Cruz and I were chatting.

Cruz is smart. Very smart. He’s kind. He has kind eyes. I enjoyed him. He asked for my number and then texted me within a couple of hours of us having met. I like that in a man, someone who doesn’t wait around to touch base.

I also like that he owns his own business, yet he’s living instead of worrying. Meaning, he’s taken some risks in life, but has figured out how to live in balance rather than be consumed by responsibility. I admire people who take risks. I don’t think I take enough risks. Emotional risks, yes. I’m a cliff diver. Other risks? Not as much.

I also like that, because I said I was starving, Cruz had offered me some of his chips and salsa while I was waiting for my food to arrive. Cruz even offered me a sip of his beer, then he ordered me a beer of my own so I would sit a bit longer with him. There’s something about a man who is willing to share.

Is he the One? My intuition says probably not. But, we’ll see. I can say that I can’t wait to hang out with him again. There’s just something about a smart guy. They’re hot.

There’s also something about a man who just broke up with his girlfriend of three years only three months ago. So there’s that with Cruz and why my intuition is treading lightly. I already went through that with Watt.

Remember? I want ready for me, not ready for me to fix before the next girl.

Oh, and if you’re thinking that this entire post has a decidedly boy-pointed direction, yeah, it does. That’s because October is coming and to me October is the beginning of the end of the year. I started this blog in January with saying I had a feeling I’d meet The One this year, so I wanted to address that. What I am saying is that I don’t know what the rest of this year holds for me. I don’t know how my story is going to go. That I’ll have to see and I’ll share as much of it as I am comfortable with.

In the mean time, all I know is that, come what may, I am excited to see what happens next. I’m open to the sky, so the sky is the limit, or shall I say the limitless, where mind, body, and spirit can go.