This is a post about a trip to the mailbox.

I had a crappy day today. I was going to post about it, but then I went outside to put an envelope in the mailbox at the end of our bazillion-foot driveway, and I sort of forgot about the crappiness.

I complain about living in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes this area just overwhelms me with its beauty. In the near-pitch-blackness of midnight, feeling the cool air on my skin, listening to the silence that just doesn't happen in cities... all the drama and worry and physical discomfort faded away.

This area really is gorgeous. I wouldn't want to stay here, but I'm glad I got the time here that I did. I'm glad I got to know my grandparents as people rather than as the free vending machines they seemed to be when I was a kid. I'm glad I got to know myself a little, as is inevitable when spending so much time alone. I'm glad I got to know what it's like to not live within ten blocks of everything I need in my daily life.

It's beautiful here during the day, too, when there are animals and clouds and incredible views. But it's at night, when I go out to the mailbox, that I fall in love with this place. It's dark, and it's quiet, and I'm alone, and for a few minutes, the urgency of to-do lists and daily life just doesn't exist.

I'm going to miss that.

I.O.U.S.A.

Patrick Creadon has done it again.

I really want to see that.

Yeah, I'm spamming. Sorry.

LOOK AT THIS THING.

There are not words to express the intensity of my desire to own that contraption. (And don't let my "motorcycles" tag scare you off--it's really more of a segway.)