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I had moved to Alaska to try something completely new, and to set my own limits.

I was at my most independent while I lived in Alaska.

Some of the guys who approached me were goblins; I regularly turned down the five-fingered grandpa — that’s five fingers total — who constantly asked me for a blow job whenever I drank at a particular downtown bar, and I practically ran away from a man who had the stringy baldness of a young Riff Raff from the Rocky Horror Picture Show when he sidled up and asked me if I had any communicable diseases as his opening line.

But most of them were just genuine guys trying their luck, which encouraged me to try my luck, too.

He had a hot tub and the kind of marijuana addiction that made him tack brightly colored carpet samples to a wall because he wanted something “cool” to look at while he was high.

I didn’t mind floating around a little stoned, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to talk about flooring for more than 60 days.

I went on a hike with Scott, who asked me out because he liked the book I was reading one night while I had dinner alone in a restaurant.

I got to Alaska the way most people do: Through personal trauma and a series of questionable decisions.

I sold all of my furniture, quit my job, bought a car, and spent two months by myself on a cross-country road trip to Alaska.

I assumed my romantic life in Alaska would continue the same way it had everywhere else I lived — sparse and unexciting.

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