Stop the presses

The week has been lovely. Summer has finally arrived. Each day has begun under feather-weight cotton sheets softly resting upon me. As the sun rises, it’s light caresses the corners of my bedroom. The birds awake and sing their sweet songs of morning. Dreams linger as I drift up to the surface of consciousness. Then…

BAM!

My body rips upright. Possessed eyes bug out. My racing heart clangs against a frenetic breathing pattern. My thoughts race… “What if said boy doesn’t own that phone number anymore? What if I’m coordinating a meeting with a complete stranger? The stranger knows my phone number. He knows my name. He knows when I’m coming in and where I’m staying. My co-workers don’t come in until much later. I could be abducted by then. Left on an unfamiliar, abandoned road near death. Or worse yet, with an unattractive cowboy wearing acid washed jeans and suffering from halitosis. What the hell am I doing? Who am I? Who does this? Holy crap…holy crap…holy crap. Is it too late to abort?

Okay, time to recollect, re-center, trust the instinct and situational judgement. Get reassurance from confidants. Journey on.

— Ballyhoo Backcaster