I Don’t Have Cancer! (Or A Job…)

Today has been one of those days which is so long it almost splits into two in your memory. The morning starts splitting off, bleeding into the day before or trying to become its own day entirely. I wasn’t particularly busy, but I did a lot of things.

A few months ago a strange mark appeared just above my left ankle. It was about the size of my pinky nail and shaped like a star. Not a five-point, doodled-in-your-notebook star. A star in the sky, splattered and edgeless. Being the daughter of a melanoma survivor (and the hypochondriac that I am) I went to the doctor.

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Fun Is Too Many Monies

Most of the time I’ve spent on this blog thus far has been dedicated to setting up the email address, getting the fucking header to show up on the page, and installing the godforsaken icon for the browser tab. (Which still does not work!) Normally the process goes something like this: I try to do something. I can’t. I message my mother who is six time zones away and far more internet savvy than I am and say, “Mommy, I can’t figure this out!” Then she tells me what to do. I do it. It still doesn’t work. Then she says, “Give me your password,” and does it for me.

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Hey, Remember That Time… I Failed at Language

I am not particularly good at the Internet. My mother is a witness to my technological ineptness. She was the one who set this whole thing up for me. (Thanks, Mom.)

Technology is hard! There are codes and passwords and cookies and now I’m hungry.

You know what else is hard? Talking. Especially considering the fact that on any given day I’d prefer not to. Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I do it quite well in two languages. My aptitude is a gift for which I am infinitely thankful. The speed with which I picked up Spanish was slightly freakish. After just four months studying abroad here I was able to fool people into thinking I was native. Fifty percent of my genes are Portuguese, which helps with the physical aspect.

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The Origin of Train Slut

Consider this blog a last-ditch effort to make myself entirely unemployable. Perhaps if I deter enough hiring managers with my decidedly uncouth title, I’ll be forced to dedicate my life to writing or starve.

Who is Train Slut?

I’m an American solo traveler with two passports and an Interrail pass. (That I haven’t actually bought yet… minor detail.) I’ve spent the last four years in Spain and decided to mosey back stateside come September. As an epic last hurrah I’m going to attempt to visit eight countries in four-six(ish) weeks one locomotive at a time.

Why? Trains are the best form of transportation and my best writing is done on them.

The. Fucking. Best.

The. Fucking. Best.

How did I come to be Train Slut? Unlike most super heroes, my origin story is neither tragic nor supernatural. My parents are wholly intact and I’ve never been struck by lightning or bitten by a genetically modified spider. (To my knowledge, anyhow.)

My story is, however, complicated and slightly turbulent. I’ll give you the eclipsed version for now:

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