Burn, Baby, Burn

Did I actually forget, as all the giddy syrupy romantic bliss and ongoing domestic drama of my past mistakes collide in the filter of my current growth, to tell you that I am going to Burning Man?!

Then let me do it now. Close your eyes. Imagine me leaping around like a 10 year old girl hopped up on pixie stix and Coca Cola and Justin Timberlake. Hear my voice, shrill and chirpy and nauseatingly ebullient: I'mgoingtoBurningManI'mgoingtoBurning ManI'mgoingtoBurning Man!!!! Woohoo!!!!

I am shopping for hot pink fishnets and knee boots and sun hats and blinky lights. Me & the S.O. are writing fortunes to put in fortune cookies we're making to hand out (I'm taking suggestions by email. My favorite thusfar: "life is an anatomically correct lollipop: lick with intent"). I'm bracing myself for the oven-like temperatures of August in the desert, and alkaline playa dust that sucks every last drop of moisture from your being, effectively embalming you on the spot and coating every last crevice of your posessions in a filmy white grit that will remain for decades to remind me of my first foray into the altered state of forty thousand crazy artists wielding fire on inhospitable terrain.

There will be a full report. There will be photos. There will be random excited gushing leading up to and following the event. There will be a cataclysmic mushroom cloud of perception expansion and paradigm shift and awe and joy and appreciation of indoor plumbing. Stay tuned.