Rented a tent.

Kurt Vonnegut died last night. He was the reason I started writing. Perhaps the Artistic Me would have turned out differently if I had made the choice after first reading Kerouac. As if I don't ramble enough already. As Mini-Kerouac, I probably would have been much more focused on writing as lifestyle. That is, drugs as writing, drinking as writing, rampant sluttery as writing. I'm glad that Vonnegut got to the young/impressionable me first (does anyone discover Vonnegut and/or Kerouac at a stable, non-impressionable age?). Instead of convincing myself that I needed to write what I know, thus pushing to experience Life and get it all down, I went the other way and wrote what I imagined. And above all else, Vonnegut showed me that humor, pessimism and humanity could all brew into warm, tasty stew. It is possible to be both pessimistic and loving within your art.