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I spent big chunks of weekend on the telephone to Australia. I haven’t really slept since Thursday. Conversations sounded like this:

“Yo. I’m glad I did it and everything… but seriously.”

“Yeah. You need to come home.”

#FollowMe(back)ToAustralia takes shape.

There’s a 36 month deadline. In three years, I’m so out. Considering it took three years to get me over here, back to New York City after nine years yonder – I’m about ready to step. Three years to get back seems somewhat sensible. Plus that gives me enough time to finish this book I’m doing, publish it and be out.

My two besties in Queensland who I kicked it with this morning both seemed to agree.

“So, when are you coming back again?”

I love New York City. There is no where else in the United States of America that gretchen cello could even consider as acceptable. EVERYONE IS HERE. Whatever background or belief, culture or creed… it’s so here. Sometimes, it’s here naked in Times Square wearing feathers.

But something I’ve learned after leaving my life of so long is that my life is 10,000 miles away from here, floating around in the Pacific on a huge empty island. Nothing will ever come near how I have been tearing the shit out of New York City since I returned, let me tell you. But something in me just doesn’t fit. There’s a stiffness to the culture, and a sad state of helplessness.

It’s nothing I want to spend more than five or six years in. September 1 marks my 36 month anniversary doing my thing in Manhattan, unreal.

Here’s to the next 36 months. And then a very, very long plane ride back home.