It's now been two weeks since I set foot in an office. I've thrown away a good 3/4 of my wardrobe, dumped all my ratty old secondhand furniture on the curbside. Books got boxed up and stored—those I didn't have the heart to toss.

I've said my goodbyes and had my third farewell party in a decade, with a barroomful of friends who told me they're getting sick of this shit and I'd better die over there this time. I'll do my best to oblige.

The questions and answers about the lack-thereof of a plan have become a formulaic rigmarole:

Moving. Where? Asia. Where? All over. Oh, vacation. No, one-way ticket. But how long? Dunno! Working? Sorta!

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The backpack's packed, and good lord is it heavy. If I don't strike it rich, at least I'll come back with some jacked calves. When a ship is ready to depart, the final step is to "weigh anchor." Home, now—my anchor—is that overstuffed bag. Anchors aweigh! 

 

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