To Write or to Die

This is the question.  Some people would say it's better to write.  That way you don't have to die.  But maybe you could just kind of maim yourself, chop off a pinky or something to that effect. 

I could walk to the beach right now, but I probably won't.  I have decided I have to write on gmail.  But like, whatever. 

I already want to get the hell out of La Serena.  Working at a hostel blows.  You have the same conversation with the same 22 year old girls from Munich day in and day out, and you kind of want to kill yourself.  I thought I wanted to own a hostel at some point.  But the only people I really want to stay with me are my friends.  And hot girls.  And that's not exactly how it works.  You can't really have a screening process.  You have to take in every last asshole. 

So I can't decide whether I want to go south, east, or north.  I would love to go west.  I really would.  But it's not feasible.  There's a massive fucking ocean there.  But I would love to go to the Juan Fernandez archipelago, a group of islands devastated by the 2010 tsunami, or to Easter Island, where the only fun thing to do seems to be looking at really big rocks and paying 20 dollars for a plate of pasta.  So I probably won't go there. 

But further west, to Tahiti, to Fiji.  Honestly I'm thinking about just going home.  To Seattle.  To wonderful, wonderful, 'Merica.  The land of the free.  The land of the Big Mac.  The land of the grocery store lines that move really fucking fast.  At least compared to Colombia.  But I don't know.  Part of me wants to continue south to Buchupureo in Chile, camp, surf, and subsist on water, bananas, and soda crackers.  And part of me wants to go to Argentina, where the girls are as fair as daisies and the steak is as thick as a hockey puck (but obviously much more tender). 

What to do?  What not to do? 

Get the hell out of here? "Chillax".