my jailbird boyfriend is a soothsayer

"Rosita," I said to the nice young woman who works at the trailer park office. "I'm confused."

"Yes?" she said as she turned away from the computer to hear me out.

"I've been here two months and I haven't paid rent because I don't know how long I'm staying."

Rosita just looked at me, patiently and kindly, waiting for me to go on.

"I know you have a yearly rate. Do I have to pay in advance to get that rate?"

"No, no. You can pay anytime. You can pay when you leave." (And I thought my last trailer park was lackadaisical about collecting rent!)

"And I'll still get the yearly rate?" I want to know because the yearly rate is half the month-to-month rate so if I pay for a year and only stay for six months, I will have lost nothing.

"Yes, you'll get the yearly rate."

"I don't know what to do."

"Antonia, don't worry about it. Go for a walk on the beach."

I walked on the beach but I remained undecided until yesterday when my neighbors made the decision for me. They moved out of a prime spot and even though getting my trailer into this newly-vacated space was a bit of a chore (long story, I won't go into it), today I moved the trailer, and not only that, I paid for a year's rent.

With the money I have, I can live for one year in the USA or two years here.

Also, there's this: My Jailbird BF - the redneck bible-thumpin' gun-totin' racist - is also a palm reader (trust me, the dude's a walking contradiction). He read my palm and predicted that I would die at age ___ which is really close. So I'm thinking, why not die in Mexico? Not that I take what he said all that seriously but still, the thought does crop up once in a while. So why go back to a 9-5 for shitty wages only to die in a chair at my desk when I can die on the beach with a magarita in my hand? No brainer, if you ask me.

The view from my new home (for the next year):