I've had a few opportunities to learn that I definitely shouldn't read comments about me (or anything really) on the Internet, but sometimes morbid curiosity gets the better of me. Firmly not learning from the past, I found myself sifting through a hundred or so of these Internet comments earlier today. The general consensus seemed to be that I'm wasting my life and I'm wrong for living in a truck.
But that really confused me, because I don't live in a truck.
You wanna know where I live?
I live at Goat Rock, where I went outdoor rock climbing for the first time today with a few friends. I watched deer dart back and forth across a hillside while I was hanging from a boulder, slicing my hands sliding against rough rocks.
I live on a hundred miles of biking trails, sometimes for hours at a time. I ride along highways and over bridges and beside marshes and anywhere that my bike is willing to take me. Sometimes I don't even know where I want to end up.
I live at the Shoreline Amphitheatre, and the Fox Theatre, The Independent, The Regency Ballroom, and half a dozen other random venues, where I dance around like an idiot and belt my heart out to my favorite bands.
I live on a picnic blanket in a bunch of different local parks, where my girlfriend and I take turns reading The Martian to each other and playing fetch with her tiny, adorable dog.
I live at the gym, because I always want to be healthier and stronger and faster, and I'm at my happiest when I'm improving.
I live in a handful of small coffee shops, where I hack away at a hundred different side projects and read because life is too short to not know stuff.
I just sleep in a truck. Living is what happens when you wake up.