Waking up in Austin.

I woke with a shudder. Memories from the night before rushed back in waves of clutter and confusion. The usual drinks. The meaningless conversations. The feeling that everyone in Texas is suffering from some sort of pretentious delusion that the 28th state, and themselves by residency, are better simply because of land mass. Vague and blurred images of bars, cabs, and a house party. Purchasing a pint of vodka because it fit into my jeans pocket. Meeting a news producer at a trendy bar I was too under-dressed for. Screaming at a cab driver. Apologizing. Scores of police waiting for the chance to arrest anyone of interest.

And it left a bad taste in my mouth. The sullen realization that these people, these places, all of them were unfitting of who I was. I didn't wake loving the things I did the night prior. I didn't wake with a smile. I woke with a massive hangover. I woke $200 poorer. And I woke wondering why.

As the liquor waited to process through my liver, it further reminded me of the foolish choices and ideas I continually pursue. What benefit was my acquisition of phone numbers from girls I never plan on calling. Or my consumption of terrible tasting liquor. The slamming of beers. Shots of absinthe. Irish car bombs. Double fisting a double gin and tonic with a stream of red headed sluts.

The scalding hotel hand towel wiped the dirt from my face but did nothing to alleviate the morning buzz- the type that demands you either push the envelope or call it a day. Sure, you can try and sober up like a functional member of society, but what benefit would that serve in helping find adventures. Excitement. Things worth noting. So I grabbed the liter of Smirnoff standing guard in the freezer and took a pull. Woke my companions. Escaped the hotel with its "courtyard" vista and semen stains. Chased the adventures I knew I'd one day have.

It was somewhere before stopping for Elk at an overpriced jerky cart but somewhere after swigging vodka in the mall parking lot that the epiphany hit me. It struck me floating along the Colorado River in a kayak that I am letting potential wither away. And potential-potential is a word I loathe. Potential is perpetually a backhanded compliment. It arises in conversation to inform you that yes, you're wasting time. Your time, my time, all time.

But the word wormed its way into my mind's eye. And lazily spinning in a circle, I realized that I'm better than this constant debauchery. As a child, you're told you can do anything you want when you grow up. But as an adult, you realize you've already eliminated so many options that failure isn't even a choice. It's a reality. But potential doesn't have to be spent on lofty goals or socially acceptable job paths. You can use it anyway you want. And my potential? I'll be using it left and right to obtain whatever I desire. What that is, I'm not sure yet. But I'm ready to start the journey of finding out.

And sitting there in water and hardened plastic I realized that I didn't hate the people and places, the acts and events. I hated myself for being so inundated with them. I hated myself for wasting my own time. My spite was self-directed and externally manifested. And completely pointless.

So I paddled back and stopped waiting for life to come find me. I set off to find my own adventure. To make my own adventure. Because this place? It isn't big enough to hold me. Because soon the things I'm going to be doing are going to be bigger than Texas.