Adventure writing is not only what this project needs to be, but also an activity that will encourage me to ravenously consume the remainder of my days.

This is not a prayer for an impossible dream. As the saying goes, adventure happens when plans take a detour.

And I have no fucking clue where I am.

It’s exciting.

Encouraging.

But, with my writing pants on, it’s all too easy to focus on where I’m not. Instead of letting ideas blossom on the page, I let them nest in my brain. Where their rambunctious progeny convince me to genuinely pursue the realization of whatever experience I’m imagining.

No matter how ridiculous.

A couple weeks back, I was trying to figure out a way to flirt with a young woman who sometimes works the coat check at a venue I attend on an infrequent, but nevertheless recurring, basis. I have a standing rule against hitting on service staff, but fuck it. Rules are made to be broken.

Coincidentally, I recently bought a fabulously badass jacket, and decided convincing her to take extra-special care of it could be just the angle I needed.

“I know this is a big ask, but is it possible for my coat not to be on top of the pile of coats that everyone’s going to be having sex on?”

That, of course, being the coat check cliché.

“Somewhere in the middle would be fine.”

Fortunately, for both my reputation and my jacket, there was no coat check that night. She was selling beer instead, and I had nothing specific prepared for that topic.

Turns out we attended different programs at the same arts school.

Not exactly sure where I should have gone with that, if anywhere at all. It was an enjoyably scenic detour on an already interesting ride.

I’m not concerned with the destination.