Dear Muskrat,
The favorites bar at the top of my browser has been filled by websites of programs of study from major universities in the area, rather than punk venues and politico podcast websites. I am thinking that school is a good place to hide out and cultivate the synaptic pathways that have remained dormant. It amazes me that in a city with so many universities and educational opportunities that the general populous chooses malt liquor beverage, in unnatural colors and flavors (blue raspberry) in oil can size containers and chemically altered tobacco that resembles some sort of spearmint flavor, and non gender specific hot pants, over centers of academia that sit across the street or down the block. You can not spit off of my fire escape without hitting some sort of academic institution.

I am faced with one of those nights where the "been there, done that" mentality has pushed the notion of hopping on the free bus to downtown and wandering around by the harbor and listening for good musi,c right out of my brain. Rather I sit on the aforementioned fire escape, sipping on a dark and stormy with top shelf rum and small batch ginger ale, laptop in hand, and thoughts needing to get out on to "paper." It seems that more of these nights have crept into my repertoire as of late. Is this what being in your 30's does to a person. Does it reduce us to sitting in our pajamas, hair in french braids, with eyeglasses on, getting drunk & blogging about how we don't feel like going out? What about hopping trains, and getting tattooed and racing cars and that trip to India I keep thinking of. Oh, god, just shoot me now...

But I am excited about starting to take my competencies and expanding them, as a leader, as head of the pack, as the alpha female, though I doubt I will ever be one of the great minds in my field, I know I will make my mark somehow. And yet I am still faced with the haunting thought of going feral. I am after all a mink, a polecat as it were, on my finer days. Wild and elusive, decorated in shiny and expensive things with one hell of a collection of high heeled shoes and cowboy boots. I crave adventure! I crave depth and authenticity, I crave freedom.

I have never been so free in my life as I am now. No name on a lease or mortgage, no car payments to be made, no children, and no deep tie to anyone or anything. Not to discredit my lovely partner in crime, but he knows that if the universe, God, life circumstances or whatever powers that be, push me much closer to the edge, I will go feral. Rather than jumping off the cliff I am being pushed towards, and rather than turning to face and combat the force that is doing the pushing I would most likely turn left and just start wandering in that direction. I will wander left. I think that you, dear Muskrat, are the only other soul who knows what that feels like, and what that means. I think that you, dear Muskrat hear the same soft call from faraway lands that I do. It is almost as if we want the past even though we know the future will be brighter and better, yet somehow we always end up turning to the left and walking in that direction praying that it holds something yet to be discovered. Praying that it hold the answer to our question. Praying that it holds the person we are meant for and the thing we are meant to do and the future that unfolds slowly and sweetly. So I propose, dear Muskrat that turning left when the more obvious choices are to jump or to turn and face the music, is the way to go.

I hope that I get to taste your coffee soon and that it warms my soul with its velvety smoothness. I only imagine that muskrats would make an amazing cup of coffee.
From the depths of my soul, I wish you success in your newest endeavor. Let us someday figure out how to life in the present, as it is a gift.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Mink, who could claim she was a marbled polecat if she had only shaved her legs and shampooed her hair today, but she did not, because she is lazy