I don't like the crowds.
Or, rather, I don't like having constant crowds. Or constant clouds.
That's not true, I like the clouds. Just not the crowds. Because they're everywhere. You can't escape them no matter where. You. Go.
And it sucks.
I'm back to manufactured cigarettes 'cause I'm lazy and Drum kinda tastes like shit.
Although "Camel Blues" aren't that much better.
England is great, but I miss Camel Lights. I miss my friends. I miss friends in general. I miss my dog. I miss my dog's right ear, which apparently got amputated while I was away because she had cancer on it.
So she's a beagle. With one flappy ear and one...Not flappy ear.
I have £16.25 tickets to see the inside of Buckingham Palace today at 3:45. But I'm not going to go. Instead, I'm going to see Coco Before Chanel and then the Cambridge Shakespeare Festival's production of Romeo and Juliet.
There was a massive birthday party last night and we all took to the streets of London like fucking rats on a ship and I didn't get back into Cambridge until 8 this morning. I haven't slept yet. I couldn't sleep - I didn't want to mess up my sleep cycle, as I do so often at college, plus I had to go to the library to work on this 15-page research paper that's due in four days.
Still don't have a thesis yet, by the way.
I'm too tired to care.
I've got some more posts coming up. But right now, it's lunch, movie, play, hibernate.
I miss you,
P. I. Staker
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Night I Spent in King's Cross
Ten minutes into the second half, I was crying again. The show was that good. It was sort of pathetic, really. Peter Pan. Fucking Peter Pan.
The tears kept coming during the entire second half, which really wasn't good, because I needed to have my wits about me. We were about to make an epic run throughout central London. You see, Peter Pan was ending at around 10 P.M. The last train to Cambridge left King's Cross at 12:07 A.M.
So that gave us roughly two hours in which we had to...
1 - Get to the nearest underground to catch the tube to Victoria Station
2 - Go to Victoria Station to pick up Becca's luggage. (Becca? Kate's little sister, who came into England during our week off to visit)
3 - Hop on the underground again to get to Kings Cross, where we would hopefully arrive in time to catch the last train home.
Now I know this list isn't very long, but London's a big place, and Kensington Gardens (which is where we saw Peter Pan, and, appropriately enough, where J.M. Barrie found the inspiration to write Peter Pan in the first place) is very far away from everything, really. Everything is far away from everything. In short, we were cutting it close.
So, we book it out of Peter Pan, and start running towards the underground. After about a minute of this, we tire and start speed walking. After about five minutes of this, we realize we need to book it and start running again. Repeat X2.
We get to the underground station, swipe our cards in, get down to the platform and...lo and behold the circle line isn't making the normal stop at Victoria Station.
So, we book it back up the 72 stairs to the entrance (And, yes, there was a sign that said "72 stairs to be used in the case of an emergency", which I reckon this was) and go out through in the "in" door. Like the reverse of that Prince song.
At any rate, we're standing on the side of the road, outside of the underground, at 10:20 at night, trying really hard to hail a cab.
Nothing.
So Kate stalks over to the closest restaurant, and, very discreetly, asks a waiter for the phone number of a cab company.
He bitchily informs Kate that hotel is just around the corner, where a consierge could point us in the right direction.
Run, speed walk, run, speed walk, 6 city blocks in total I'd reckon, all the way to this hotel.
Where no one spoke English.
So Kate's inside, trying to translate "taxi" into Spanish, when I manage to hail a cab on the side of the street with Becca. Becca runs off to get Kate, and away we go to Victoria Station.
The cab cost £17. But, since we were in a hurry, Kate handed the guy a £20 note and said "keep the change" which I thought was really cool, kinda like getting into a cab and saying "I'm trying to get to the United Nations. I'm being followed. Can you do anything about it?"
Anyway.
We get to Victoria Station, it's about 11:15 P.M. Kate and Becca run off to get Becca's luggage, while I stay behind to smoke a cig/make sure the tube hasn't stopped running for the night.
Lucky for us, it hasn't.
20 minutes on the Picadilly Line late, and we're at King's Cross.
All the while, a man's whistling that song from the Phantom of the Opera that's actually pretty cool. Kinda soft and lilting, and I think the lyrics go something like "softly, sweetly, barely even whispering..." or something like that.
At any rate, here's where I would make up some elaborate tale about how we missed the train and had to spend the night in King's Cross with that old dude singing Phantom of the Opera. But I'm too tired for lies and creativity, so the truth will have to do.
We made it, just fine.
P. I. Staker
The tears kept coming during the entire second half, which really wasn't good, because I needed to have my wits about me. We were about to make an epic run throughout central London. You see, Peter Pan was ending at around 10 P.M. The last train to Cambridge left King's Cross at 12:07 A.M.
So that gave us roughly two hours in which we had to...
1 - Get to the nearest underground to catch the tube to Victoria Station
2 - Go to Victoria Station to pick up Becca's luggage. (Becca? Kate's little sister, who came into England during our week off to visit)
3 - Hop on the underground again to get to Kings Cross, where we would hopefully arrive in time to catch the last train home.
Now I know this list isn't very long, but London's a big place, and Kensington Gardens (which is where we saw Peter Pan, and, appropriately enough, where J.M. Barrie found the inspiration to write Peter Pan in the first place) is very far away from everything, really. Everything is far away from everything. In short, we were cutting it close.
So, we book it out of Peter Pan, and start running towards the underground. After about a minute of this, we tire and start speed walking. After about five minutes of this, we realize we need to book it and start running again. Repeat X2.
We get to the underground station, swipe our cards in, get down to the platform and...lo and behold the circle line isn't making the normal stop at Victoria Station.
So, we book it back up the 72 stairs to the entrance (And, yes, there was a sign that said "72 stairs to be used in the case of an emergency", which I reckon this was) and go out through in the "in" door. Like the reverse of that Prince song.
At any rate, we're standing on the side of the road, outside of the underground, at 10:20 at night, trying really hard to hail a cab.
Nothing.
So Kate stalks over to the closest restaurant, and, very discreetly, asks a waiter for the phone number of a cab company.
He bitchily informs Kate that hotel is just around the corner, where a consierge could point us in the right direction.
Run, speed walk, run, speed walk, 6 city blocks in total I'd reckon, all the way to this hotel.
Where no one spoke English.
So Kate's inside, trying to translate "taxi" into Spanish, when I manage to hail a cab on the side of the street with Becca. Becca runs off to get Kate, and away we go to Victoria Station.
The cab cost £17. But, since we were in a hurry, Kate handed the guy a £20 note and said "keep the change" which I thought was really cool, kinda like getting into a cab and saying "I'm trying to get to the United Nations. I'm being followed. Can you do anything about it?"
Anyway.
We get to Victoria Station, it's about 11:15 P.M. Kate and Becca run off to get Becca's luggage, while I stay behind to smoke a cig/make sure the tube hasn't stopped running for the night.
Lucky for us, it hasn't.
20 minutes on the Picadilly Line late, and we're at King's Cross.
All the while, a man's whistling that song from the Phantom of the Opera that's actually pretty cool. Kinda soft and lilting, and I think the lyrics go something like "softly, sweetly, barely even whispering..." or something like that.
At any rate, here's where I would make up some elaborate tale about how we missed the train and had to spend the night in King's Cross with that old dude singing Phantom of the Opera. But I'm too tired for lies and creativity, so the truth will have to do.
We made it, just fine.
P. I. Staker
The Most Stupid Thing I Ever Did...
...Was try to hike a mountain, by myself, in the rain, wearing sandals.
Let me expound.
So I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland, with Billy and Negeen, and we decide to climb up this nature path/huge-ass hill that gives you a 360 degree view of Edinburgh and the surrounding countryside. It's call Holyrood Park. Billy goes into warp speed, and Negeen goes into really really slow speed, and I'm somewhere in the middle, walking up this hill. Well, the hill takes you up high and then spits you out at the bottom again, and at the bottom of this hill is a rocky mountain. I get to the bottom of the rocky mountain, Billy's nowhere in sight, and Negeen's with me. This rocky mountain had two sets of steep stairs you could follow up to the top.
Steep? These fuckers were ridiculous. I don't know if there's a word for these kind of stairs, but it was as if someone carved 2-foot high stairs into the side of the mountain, and then put a piece of wood on the top of each stair where you could step to climb.
I decided I would do this, and picked what I thought was the easiest path.
I picked the hardest path.
There were about a hundred of these 2-foot high stairs, leading up to a ledge. I shimmied across the ledge, to continue up, when I came across a part of the mountain that had no stairs, rather a steep, muddy looking bend in the side of the mountain.
By now, I could see the top.
It was getting colder the higher I got up, and the wind had picked up as well. It was obviously about to storm. But I came this far, hamstrings and upper thighs burning, thank you, so I wasn't about to turn back just because the stairs ended. I thought, I will probably never get to do this ever again. Ever. So I better fucking do this now.
So I take my first step, and make it almost to the top. The walking up wasn't that difficult, but when I got near the top I saw what I couldn't see earlier - there's no easy way to pull yourself up to the top of the mountain, as the top of this craggy-valley thing had a lip jutting out about a foot. So I looked down.
I shouldn't have looked down. My heart started pumping - faster than it already was - my breathing was already shallow due to the altitude, and, to add a little drama to things, the wind chose that point to pick up speed, and the rain began. The rain was really, really cold.
I thought, my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here. I'm alone, I'm wearing sandals, I'm carrying a purse for fuck's sake, and I'm going to die. So I started giving myself an oral pep talk.
"You can do this, Nina. You got this, one foot in front of the other, just go down the mountain, go to the bottom, you got this, Nina..."
I didn't got this. I started to slip. Then I started to pray. Again, orally.
"Please, God, please let me live. Please God, please let me live. Just let me get down the side of this mountain thing. Please!"
I'm talking to myself. I'm sitting on my butt, trying to slide down this crag of the mountain, while not tearing my jeans, because if I die, no way will it be with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans, and if I make it, no way will I walk the 2 miles back to the hostel with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans.
I get down the mountain crag, take a sigh, and thank God for not letting me fall on the now rain-slicked rocks.
The next step was also difficult - getting down those 2-foot high stairs.
They're so high, I can't really step down. I have to hop.
So I'm hopping down the side of this mountain, and every hop has a "Thank you" or a "God" or a "for letting me" or a "live" attached to it.
And that's how I made it down the mountain.
Next up - the fictitious story of how I spent the night in a train station.
P. I. Staker
Let me expound.
So I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland, with Billy and Negeen, and we decide to climb up this nature path/huge-ass hill that gives you a 360 degree view of Edinburgh and the surrounding countryside. It's call Holyrood Park. Billy goes into warp speed, and Negeen goes into really really slow speed, and I'm somewhere in the middle, walking up this hill. Well, the hill takes you up high and then spits you out at the bottom again, and at the bottom of this hill is a rocky mountain. I get to the bottom of the rocky mountain, Billy's nowhere in sight, and Negeen's with me. This rocky mountain had two sets of steep stairs you could follow up to the top.
Steep? These fuckers were ridiculous. I don't know if there's a word for these kind of stairs, but it was as if someone carved 2-foot high stairs into the side of the mountain, and then put a piece of wood on the top of each stair where you could step to climb.
I decided I would do this, and picked what I thought was the easiest path.
I picked the hardest path.
There were about a hundred of these 2-foot high stairs, leading up to a ledge. I shimmied across the ledge, to continue up, when I came across a part of the mountain that had no stairs, rather a steep, muddy looking bend in the side of the mountain.
By now, I could see the top.
It was getting colder the higher I got up, and the wind had picked up as well. It was obviously about to storm. But I came this far, hamstrings and upper thighs burning, thank you, so I wasn't about to turn back just because the stairs ended. I thought, I will probably never get to do this ever again. Ever. So I better fucking do this now.
So I take my first step, and make it almost to the top. The walking up wasn't that difficult, but when I got near the top I saw what I couldn't see earlier - there's no easy way to pull yourself up to the top of the mountain, as the top of this craggy-valley thing had a lip jutting out about a foot. So I looked down.
I shouldn't have looked down. My heart started pumping - faster than it already was - my breathing was already shallow due to the altitude, and, to add a little drama to things, the wind chose that point to pick up speed, and the rain began. The rain was really, really cold.
I thought, my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here. I'm alone, I'm wearing sandals, I'm carrying a purse for fuck's sake, and I'm going to die. So I started giving myself an oral pep talk.
"You can do this, Nina. You got this, one foot in front of the other, just go down the mountain, go to the bottom, you got this, Nina..."
I didn't got this. I started to slip. Then I started to pray. Again, orally.
"Please, God, please let me live. Please God, please let me live. Just let me get down the side of this mountain thing. Please!"
I'm talking to myself. I'm sitting on my butt, trying to slide down this crag of the mountain, while not tearing my jeans, because if I die, no way will it be with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans, and if I make it, no way will I walk the 2 miles back to the hostel with a gaping hole in the pants of my jeans.
I get down the mountain crag, take a sigh, and thank God for not letting me fall on the now rain-slicked rocks.
The next step was also difficult - getting down those 2-foot high stairs.
They're so high, I can't really step down. I have to hop.
So I'm hopping down the side of this mountain, and every hop has a "Thank you" or a "God" or a "for letting me" or a "live" attached to it.
And that's how I made it down the mountain.
Next up - the fictitious story of how I spent the night in a train station.
P. I. Staker
Coincidence?
I've got much to say, so I might as well get down to it.
First of all - let me tell you a little bit about the past few hours.
So, not much is going on here in Cambridge, it's the last Saturday of our week off, and some people are still gone, others sleeping for as long as possible, still others punting. I decided to go see a movie. I just saw Moon, with Sam Rockwell, and at around the middle of the film I had this terrible feeling that I was very suddenly and unexpectedly going to die and go to hell.
I know, right? Terrible. Probably a combination of the sci-fi thriller I was watching, the fact that I was watching it alone, and the residual side effects of the book I spent all afternoon reading. (The book, Haunted, pretty much gives away the entire feeling of the book in it's title. It's fucking scary as shit, and all about death.)
At any rate, I left the movie feeling pretty weird, and I'm thinking, damn, I'm gonna call my dad 'cause I know he'll make me feel better. Well, I'll be damned if I don't have that thought, and then get a voicemail from him a minute later.
So that was pretty weird.
Now, this next part's gonna need a little backstory. The first week I was here, I was walking to Sainsbury's with Billy, when this guy walks up to me asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. I didn't give him the money, and immediately felt guilty, because - come on. It was 90 pence. I could have given him a pound and been fine. He didn't look homeless, he just looked sad. But I didn't give it to him.
Well, after I talked with my dad for a spell, up walks the same guy. Asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. Just like the last time. I figured I'd redeem myself, and gave him a pound. He immediately went into this story about how his friend was supposed to pick him up, but then he couldn't, and the 90 pence guy didn't have any money for the bus because he bought a can of coke.
I just looked at him and said, you've asked me this before.
Get your shit together.
Moving on.
Did you know you can bring matches onto an airplane, but not your favorite organic toothpaste that's only made and sold in America?
Neither did I!
Moving on.
When I landed in Dublin, Ireland, I looked out of the window in the airplane and saw a rainbow. Not kidding. Hours after that, I saw a double-banded rainbow. The next day, in the Gravity Bar of the Guinness Factory, I see a fourth rainbow, this one stretching in a perfect arch across the city.
Moving on.
P. I. Staker
First of all - let me tell you a little bit about the past few hours.
So, not much is going on here in Cambridge, it's the last Saturday of our week off, and some people are still gone, others sleeping for as long as possible, still others punting. I decided to go see a movie. I just saw Moon, with Sam Rockwell, and at around the middle of the film I had this terrible feeling that I was very suddenly and unexpectedly going to die and go to hell.
I know, right? Terrible. Probably a combination of the sci-fi thriller I was watching, the fact that I was watching it alone, and the residual side effects of the book I spent all afternoon reading. (The book, Haunted, pretty much gives away the entire feeling of the book in it's title. It's fucking scary as shit, and all about death.)
At any rate, I left the movie feeling pretty weird, and I'm thinking, damn, I'm gonna call my dad 'cause I know he'll make me feel better. Well, I'll be damned if I don't have that thought, and then get a voicemail from him a minute later.
So that was pretty weird.
Now, this next part's gonna need a little backstory. The first week I was here, I was walking to Sainsbury's with Billy, when this guy walks up to me asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. I didn't give him the money, and immediately felt guilty, because - come on. It was 90 pence. I could have given him a pound and been fine. He didn't look homeless, he just looked sad. But I didn't give it to him.
Well, after I talked with my dad for a spell, up walks the same guy. Asking for 90 pence to catch a busride home. Just like the last time. I figured I'd redeem myself, and gave him a pound. He immediately went into this story about how his friend was supposed to pick him up, but then he couldn't, and the 90 pence guy didn't have any money for the bus because he bought a can of coke.
I just looked at him and said, you've asked me this before.
Get your shit together.
Moving on.
Did you know you can bring matches onto an airplane, but not your favorite organic toothpaste that's only made and sold in America?
Neither did I!
Moving on.
When I landed in Dublin, Ireland, I looked out of the window in the airplane and saw a rainbow. Not kidding. Hours after that, I saw a double-banded rainbow. The next day, in the Gravity Bar of the Guinness Factory, I see a fourth rainbow, this one stretching in a perfect arch across the city.
Moving on.
P. I. Staker
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
T.G.I Want CHILLI'S
Just in case anyone was seriously concerned - the courrier ended up costing me £12.80. Amazing student discount.
So. Chilli's sucks. This is nothing new. Their food sucks, the decorations suck, the waitors' uniforms suck...period.
And yet, I love Chilli's. I love it because English food isn't so hot - trying to pick out something to eat can take me up to 20 minutes, just because they always manage to take a really good dish and then throw in some random shit like vinegar to fuck it all up.
Josh described Chilli's as the brainchild of a bunch of high people, who just thought of all the food they would love to munch out on. I can see it now. "Dude...Endless chips. And an ear of corn should come with EVERY dish..."
Chilli's is not fine dining, goddamnit, but it's home, and when I saw that there was a Chilli's 15 minutes up the road from our house, my first thought was blended margaritas.
Mmmm blended margaritas. Mmmm ICE.
You cannot get ice anywhere. I was sent out to the convenience store to pick up some ice for gin and vodka night, and when I walked in and asked about it, the man looked at me apologetically and said, "No. I don't have any ice. Sometimes I get it, and when I do I'll let you know."
Ice is a fucking precious commodity here. Which normally would be fine - back home I always order my drinks without ice, because the drinks are always cold without ice. Nothing in England is cold without ice. Everything is tepid, lukewarm...pick your gross adjective.
Point is, when I saw the Chilli's ad, the first thing that caught my eye was the giant icy margarita. They have icy, blended margaritas at Chilli's. They have endless chips and corn with almost every meal.
The ferver spread quickly. First to fall was Josh, which was to be expected. Then I snagged Kate Kelly, and finally Billy and Negeen. The rest of the group didn't really get the joke or the enthusiasm. They kept on trying to tell us that Chilli's sucked. Yeah. I know. That's the point.
So the five of us set off on our pilgrimage to Chilli's, singing that babyback ribs song all the way.
We get to the mall. We wander, in search of Chilli's. We come across a...a...a...what's that I see? The striped awning! Mecca! The promised land! CHILLI'S! The huge glass windows, the tex-mex tables with the tiles in the center, the wooden chairs that always feel a little greasy to the touch...are on top of the tex-mex tables with the tile in the center?
...the fuck?
They had closed down. The map we had, that proudly displayed the Chilli's insignia in the bottom right corner, was from 2008. They had shut down June 17, 2009. Ten days before we arrived in Cambridge.
Hopes immediately dashed, we were sulking outside the closed restaurant when up walked a brit with a tongue piercing and a suit on. Kate Kelly made friends with him, and asked where we could get some margaritas.
He named a place, and we went in search of the empty mall for the Great White Hope of margaritas. What we found was another closed restaurant, with holes in the walls.
Cambridge just can't sustain a margarita drinking population, much to our dismay. We ended up going over to the restaurant where we had eaten the two previous nights, because all of their food is under £5, and they have this really good pitcher special called the Godfather, which is pepsi, jack daniels, and disarono amaretto.
But still. I wasn't able to get a margarita until I went to Edinburgh.
Cheers,
P. I. Staker
So. Chilli's sucks. This is nothing new. Their food sucks, the decorations suck, the waitors' uniforms suck...period.
And yet, I love Chilli's. I love it because English food isn't so hot - trying to pick out something to eat can take me up to 20 minutes, just because they always manage to take a really good dish and then throw in some random shit like vinegar to fuck it all up.
Josh described Chilli's as the brainchild of a bunch of high people, who just thought of all the food they would love to munch out on. I can see it now. "Dude...Endless chips. And an ear of corn should come with EVERY dish..."
Chilli's is not fine dining, goddamnit, but it's home, and when I saw that there was a Chilli's 15 minutes up the road from our house, my first thought was blended margaritas.
Mmmm blended margaritas. Mmmm ICE.
You cannot get ice anywhere. I was sent out to the convenience store to pick up some ice for gin and vodka night, and when I walked in and asked about it, the man looked at me apologetically and said, "No. I don't have any ice. Sometimes I get it, and when I do I'll let you know."
Ice is a fucking precious commodity here. Which normally would be fine - back home I always order my drinks without ice, because the drinks are always cold without ice. Nothing in England is cold without ice. Everything is tepid, lukewarm...pick your gross adjective.
Point is, when I saw the Chilli's ad, the first thing that caught my eye was the giant icy margarita. They have icy, blended margaritas at Chilli's. They have endless chips and corn with almost every meal.
The ferver spread quickly. First to fall was Josh, which was to be expected. Then I snagged Kate Kelly, and finally Billy and Negeen. The rest of the group didn't really get the joke or the enthusiasm. They kept on trying to tell us that Chilli's sucked. Yeah. I know. That's the point.
So the five of us set off on our pilgrimage to Chilli's, singing that babyback ribs song all the way.
We get to the mall. We wander, in search of Chilli's. We come across a...a...a...what's that I see? The striped awning! Mecca! The promised land! CHILLI'S! The huge glass windows, the tex-mex tables with the tiles in the center, the wooden chairs that always feel a little greasy to the touch...are on top of the tex-mex tables with the tile in the center?
...the fuck?
They had closed down. The map we had, that proudly displayed the Chilli's insignia in the bottom right corner, was from 2008. They had shut down June 17, 2009. Ten days before we arrived in Cambridge.
Hopes immediately dashed, we were sulking outside the closed restaurant when up walked a brit with a tongue piercing and a suit on. Kate Kelly made friends with him, and asked where we could get some margaritas.
He named a place, and we went in search of the empty mall for the Great White Hope of margaritas. What we found was another closed restaurant, with holes in the walls.
Cambridge just can't sustain a margarita drinking population, much to our dismay. We ended up going over to the restaurant where we had eaten the two previous nights, because all of their food is under £5, and they have this really good pitcher special called the Godfather, which is pepsi, jack daniels, and disarono amaretto.
But still. I wasn't able to get a margarita until I went to Edinburgh.
Cheers,
P. I. Staker
Thursday, July 16, 2009
White Winter Hymnal
You know that game where you write a line of a poem and then the next person writes the next line of the poem, and so on and so forth until you get to the end of the paper?
Well we played that drunk. And this is what we came up with.
Ahem.
"I had some wine after I had sex with him
you know, after the fact, after the fact - it wasn't
exactly true, any of it: the sex, the condom, the baby afterwards.
If she could have the night over, she never would have done it; however,
what was done was done.
And Nina Hawley was done, done with
Mark after another Hawley 180. Moreover, the old dirty man decided to
use his mirror to look up the skirts of the young women's dresses, end flowers bloomed in the fertile field.
Where they frolicked in the aforementioned field
and decided to hike through a golf cours in Exeter.
Clearly, this was a bad decision because the golf course
is where old people in argyle go to get it on and play
Scotland games like throw giant logs and
herd really furry sheep.
Yall know ya'll were supposed to show more than
the last line of the story. Like, the last two lines would have been baller. But whatever. <3 Nina.
It's cool, I can always get one of them handjobs...
So we beat on, boats into the current, borne
back ceaselessly into the past..."
P.I. Staker
P.S. - That last one was actually a reference to the phrase that won me a star in Knebel's class junior year of high school. I still have documentation of that.
"So I press on, Oldsmobile into the traffic, pushed back painfully into the SUV."
Well we played that drunk. And this is what we came up with.
Ahem.
"I had some wine after I had sex with him
you know, after the fact, after the fact - it wasn't
exactly true, any of it: the sex, the condom, the baby afterwards.
If she could have the night over, she never would have done it; however,
what was done was done.
And Nina Hawley was done, done with
Mark after another Hawley 180. Moreover, the old dirty man decided to
use his mirror to look up the skirts of the young women's dresses, end flowers bloomed in the fertile field.
Where they frolicked in the aforementioned field
and decided to hike through a golf cours in Exeter.
Clearly, this was a bad decision because the golf course
is where old people in argyle go to get it on and play
Scotland games like throw giant logs and
herd really furry sheep.
Yall know ya'll were supposed to show more than
the last line of the story. Like, the last two lines would have been baller. But whatever. <3 Nina.
It's cool, I can always get one of them handjobs...
So we beat on, boats into the current, borne
back ceaselessly into the past..."
P.I. Staker
P.S. - That last one was actually a reference to the phrase that won me a star in Knebel's class junior year of high school. I still have documentation of that.
"So I press on, Oldsmobile into the traffic, pushed back painfully into the SUV."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Drunk Americans
Let it never be said that smoking a cigarette late at night lends itself towards boredom.
The place where we're staying is right next to this bar, Henry's, and every Wednesday night they have £1.50 Fosters in to-go cups, which I would have partaken of had I not had a paper due tomorrow. At any rate, some other rowdy Americans stumbled upon this little jewel tucked away in the bend of the River Cam and drank themselves silly, and then proceeded to jump all over the punts.
Let me clarify.
The punts are boats that pretty much resemble a flat log. Think of a very flat gondala, with a pretty substantial board on the tail end. They're about 8 feet wide, 15 feet long (I know, I know, it should be in meters. Or metres. But I am an American, and tend to think like one, so...) and are lined up all along the River Cam, where Cambridge is located. You hire a punt, and have the option of either pushing the punt yourself with this really long pole (just like a gondola) or hiring one of the really attractive punt boys to steer you down the river while you drink a bottle of wine. The punt boys (as I call them) were somewhat of a nuisance the first two weeks, as they gather right outside our house (which happens to be in one of the busiest sections of Cambridge) and generally haggle anybody who walks by.
"Excuse me, ladies, but are you going punting today?" (And they're always wearing these funny uniforms that consist of a straw hat and blue vest, and, like I said earlier, they're always really attractive. Honestly, the cream of the crop, these guys are.)
For two weeks it was "No, not today, thank you." Until Kate Kelly, as per her usual Kate Kelly self, walked up to one of the punters and said "Hey, you recognize me? Well we're (gesturing, here, to me) going to be here for 6 weeks. We'll go punting! I promise! Just not today, alright? We'll come to you when we want to go punting..." etc, etc.
So of course they bother us even more, for about two more days. And then they cool off, and I haven't really been haggled since.
The punts are actually pretty cool, as you can see parts of Cambridge (i.e. Kings College - where Harry Potter was filmed!) that tourists aren't normally allowed into. But, since I have a Cambridge I.D., that's not really an issue for me.
At any rate, these drunken Americans were going on about how they did the punt run (get really drunk and then run along the punts lined up on Quayside, the street that's lined up with the Cam, also, the street where Basing House is) and how they're ready for the big time - jumping from the punts, across the river, to the other side.
Now, the river's not that big, but it's pretty big. About...25 feet I'd say. Maybe less. But still, that's an impressive jump.
So the Americans get to talking.
Guy 1: Who's going first?
Guy 2: You're crazy. You'd have to be a long-jumper to jump that.
Guy 1: Muhammad Ali could do it.
Guy 3: Muhammad Ali's retarded.
Guy 1: Yeah, but he could do it.
Guy 4: ...And it made him retarded.
All: hahahahahahahahah
Guy 5: Alright, let's do this MOTHERFUCKER!
Guy 1: Yeah! Who's going first?
(Crickets)
Guy 6: We'll do it TOMORROW, MOTHERFUCKER!
Guy 5: Yeah, we'll do it tomorrow.
Guy 1: TOMORROW, MOTHERFUCKER!
So. Tomorrow it is, then.
Saw a matine of Harry Potter today (The Professor would never have done this with me) and thought it was pretty all right. It was like eye cotton candy. Fun to eat, but not very substantial. Us 5 Americans managed to fenagle our way into the very front of the line, something I found kinda funny considering we were in England, seeing Harry Potter. The movie theatre was pretty cool, too. The cinemas were up 3 flights of stairs and the theatre itself was lit by blue and green light bulbs.
I'm going to see North by Northwest there on Friday at 12:15 P.M. (Again, The Professor would never be down for this). Missing lunch, too. Oh well. I guess it's a boxed lunch at Sainsbury's! (Sainsbury's = Food Lion).
Then it's off to London, London (Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens - tickets cost me £44 but we got pretty kick ass seats. I had to. It's Peter FUCKING Pan MOTHERFUCKER), Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Cambridge, Dublin, Dublin, Dublin, Cambridge, Canterbury.
No Loch Ness, I'm afraid. I just couldn't swing the trip, not when I'm going to see Peter FUCKING Pan.
Jazz pants, lycras, et. al.,
P. I. Staker
P.S. To be more economical, I've started smoking rolled cigarettes. None of this £5.49 manufactured bullshit! Give me the £2.69 Drum tobacco! Billy and Negeen got on my case for this today, because (shocking) rolled cigarettes look like doobies. "Doobies". That was the word they used. Like the Doobie Brothers. They were honestly concerned that I would be stopped on the street by a cop because it looks like I'm smoking a "doobie".
Doobie? Really?
I can't even begin to address how crazy this is, on all levels, because a) a cop would smell the difference b) you'd have to be a crazy motherfucker to walk around the streets of Cambridge smoking a doobie and c) everyone. Smokes. Rolled. Cigarettes.
Seriously! Everyone smokes rolled cigarettes. The other day, I watched a woman on a bike stop at an intersection and roll a cigarette while she waited for the light to change. Ridiculous how good these people are at rolling cigarettes, it is.
I also have a great story about a street performer, but it's getting on toward 2 A.M. here, and I'm getting kinda tired.
Night, yall!
The place where we're staying is right next to this bar, Henry's, and every Wednesday night they have £1.50 Fosters in to-go cups, which I would have partaken of had I not had a paper due tomorrow. At any rate, some other rowdy Americans stumbled upon this little jewel tucked away in the bend of the River Cam and drank themselves silly, and then proceeded to jump all over the punts.
Let me clarify.
The punts are boats that pretty much resemble a flat log. Think of a very flat gondala, with a pretty substantial board on the tail end. They're about 8 feet wide, 15 feet long (I know, I know, it should be in meters. Or metres. But I am an American, and tend to think like one, so...) and are lined up all along the River Cam, where Cambridge is located. You hire a punt, and have the option of either pushing the punt yourself with this really long pole (just like a gondola) or hiring one of the really attractive punt boys to steer you down the river while you drink a bottle of wine. The punt boys (as I call them) were somewhat of a nuisance the first two weeks, as they gather right outside our house (which happens to be in one of the busiest sections of Cambridge) and generally haggle anybody who walks by.
"Excuse me, ladies, but are you going punting today?" (And they're always wearing these funny uniforms that consist of a straw hat and blue vest, and, like I said earlier, they're always really attractive. Honestly, the cream of the crop, these guys are.)
For two weeks it was "No, not today, thank you." Until Kate Kelly, as per her usual Kate Kelly self, walked up to one of the punters and said "Hey, you recognize me? Well we're (gesturing, here, to me) going to be here for 6 weeks. We'll go punting! I promise! Just not today, alright? We'll come to you when we want to go punting..." etc, etc.
So of course they bother us even more, for about two more days. And then they cool off, and I haven't really been haggled since.
The punts are actually pretty cool, as you can see parts of Cambridge (i.e. Kings College - where Harry Potter was filmed!) that tourists aren't normally allowed into. But, since I have a Cambridge I.D., that's not really an issue for me.
At any rate, these drunken Americans were going on about how they did the punt run (get really drunk and then run along the punts lined up on Quayside, the street that's lined up with the Cam, also, the street where Basing House is) and how they're ready for the big time - jumping from the punts, across the river, to the other side.
Now, the river's not that big, but it's pretty big. About...25 feet I'd say. Maybe less. But still, that's an impressive jump.
So the Americans get to talking.
Guy 1: Who's going first?
Guy 2: You're crazy. You'd have to be a long-jumper to jump that.
Guy 1: Muhammad Ali could do it.
Guy 3: Muhammad Ali's retarded.
Guy 1: Yeah, but he could do it.
Guy 4: ...And it made him retarded.
All: hahahahahahahahah
Guy 5: Alright, let's do this MOTHERFUCKER!
Guy 1: Yeah! Who's going first?
(Crickets)
Guy 6: We'll do it TOMORROW, MOTHERFUCKER!
Guy 5: Yeah, we'll do it tomorrow.
Guy 1: TOMORROW, MOTHERFUCKER!
So. Tomorrow it is, then.
Saw a matine of Harry Potter today (The Professor would never have done this with me) and thought it was pretty all right. It was like eye cotton candy. Fun to eat, but not very substantial. Us 5 Americans managed to fenagle our way into the very front of the line, something I found kinda funny considering we were in England, seeing Harry Potter. The movie theatre was pretty cool, too. The cinemas were up 3 flights of stairs and the theatre itself was lit by blue and green light bulbs.
I'm going to see North by Northwest there on Friday at 12:15 P.M. (Again, The Professor would never be down for this). Missing lunch, too. Oh well. I guess it's a boxed lunch at Sainsbury's! (Sainsbury's = Food Lion).
Then it's off to London, London (Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens - tickets cost me £44 but we got pretty kick ass seats. I had to. It's Peter FUCKING Pan MOTHERFUCKER), Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Cambridge, Dublin, Dublin, Dublin, Cambridge, Canterbury.
No Loch Ness, I'm afraid. I just couldn't swing the trip, not when I'm going to see Peter FUCKING Pan.
Jazz pants, lycras, et. al.,
P. I. Staker
P.S. To be more economical, I've started smoking rolled cigarettes. None of this £5.49 manufactured bullshit! Give me the £2.69 Drum tobacco! Billy and Negeen got on my case for this today, because (shocking) rolled cigarettes look like doobies. "Doobies". That was the word they used. Like the Doobie Brothers. They were honestly concerned that I would be stopped on the street by a cop because it looks like I'm smoking a "doobie".
Doobie? Really?
I can't even begin to address how crazy this is, on all levels, because a) a cop would smell the difference b) you'd have to be a crazy motherfucker to walk around the streets of Cambridge smoking a doobie and c) everyone. Smokes. Rolled. Cigarettes.
Seriously! Everyone smokes rolled cigarettes. The other day, I watched a woman on a bike stop at an intersection and roll a cigarette while she waited for the light to change. Ridiculous how good these people are at rolling cigarettes, it is.
I also have a great story about a street performer, but it's getting on toward 2 A.M. here, and I'm getting kinda tired.
Night, yall!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I Can't Tracy Chapman
I want to do everything, and that seems to be a problem. We have a week long break coming up, and I simply don't know what to do, for the simple reason that I simply want to do every damn thing I can in the entire United Kingdom. The house where J.M. Barrie grew up in Scotland is "on display" as a museum and gift shop, and fuck yeah I wanna go there. While we're on the topic, I wanna go to the Kensington Gardens in London to see the Peter Pan statue that Barrie designed in the early 1900's. I wanna go to Edinburgh. I wanna go to Loch Ness and find the damn monster everyone's been freaking out about. While I'm there I also wanna walk around wearing a fanny pack, sneakers, jorts, and a T-Shirt that says "I <3> Nessie".
Point is, I don't have enough time to do all this shit. And, moreover, I don't think anyone's interested in taking a 9-hour train ride to Scotland to see J.M. Barrie's suburbian home.
I reckon I'll figure something out. I always do, I'm scrappy like that.
At any rate.
The lingo of England is something to be admired. Many words can mean many different things. Take, for instance, the word "cheers".
Woman walks up to another woman standing on the street corner. They're old friends, Jane and Julia, who haven't spoken to each other in a while. This is the first time they've seen each other in...6 months. Let's watch.
Jane: Julia! Cheers! I heard about your baby, cheeers!
Julia: Going to Hawaii I hear? Cheers on your trip!
Jane: Oh bollocks, I'm out of pence, could I borrow 20 p to catch the coach?
Julia: Cheers, 'course you can, here you go.
Jane: Cheers for this, best be off, cheers.
Julia: Ta! Talk to you soon, cheers!
Also, the brits have rather interesting habits when it comes to bachelor parties (no, I haven't seen the Hangover). In England they call bachelor parties "stag parties" and bachelorette parties are called "hen parties". Hen parties are generally benign and consist of a bunch of women dressing up in whore outfits (Brittney Spears, Madonna, slutty nuns, etc.) and walking about town wearing sashes that say "so-and-so's Hen Party! Cheers!". Stag parties are a little more intense. I was talking to a taxi driver the other day with Kate Kelly and he told us how stag parties generally involved the obvious (drunkenness) and the slightly less obvious (public nudity). One time, he said, he was driving his cab around Cambridge at 6 in the morning and saw a drunk naked man duct-taped to a pole. His friends had left him there all night, poor soul.
That's what you get for getting married.
I'm in a hostel in Exeter, and the song that goes "how can we dance while the Earth is turning? How can we sleep while our beds are burning?" came on the radio and I automatically thought of Hambone and Hunter and their European trip and how they heard that song everywhere they went. Honestly, it's all 80's and techno all the time, baby. So be it.
I messed up hard core yesterday. We traveled, as a group, by bus to Bath. So I didn't need my special Britrail pass to take the train or anything. But...I needed it for today and tomorrow, because obviously I had to get to Exeter and tomorrow I'm going to Stonehenge. I forgot it. I woke up the day we were supposed to leave for Bath at 7:13 A.M. clutching my cell phone like I was in rigor mortis, the alarm obviously silenced for good. We were supposed to be on the bus by 7:15. I made it there by 7:20, and forgot the Britrail pass. Remembered when we got to Bath, though, so it was (through much pomp and circumstance) courriered to me (personally) today. Someone actually got in a car, with my britrail pass, and drove it across the country. People actually do that shit. And it's gonna cost me 40 pounds! These courrier dudes make bank, traveling across the country like the fucking Pony Express, delivering shit, and getting paid in cash to do it. I want that job. I would love that job.
I could be a courrier, couldn't I?
We partied in Bath, which was kinda funny because the whole point of Bath during the 18th and 19th centuries was to see and be seen, promenade and find a husband and all that shit. And we embodied that in our clubbing experience. At least, we embodied the part about seeing, I'm not so sure we necessarily wanted to be seen. At least I didn't. I tried to blend in. But it's difficult when Kate and Eissa find the stripper pole...
We wound up at this bar/restaurant that was having a trivia night, and Kate and I completely owned everyone.
I'm dog fucking tired. I'll give you more later.
P. I. Staker
That's what you get for getting married.
I'm in a hostel in Exeter, and the song that goes "how can we dance while the Earth is turning? How can we sleep while our beds are burning?" came on the radio and I automatically thought of Hambone and Hunter and their European trip and how they heard that song everywhere they went. Honestly, it's all 80's and techno all the time, baby. So be it.
I messed up hard core yesterday. We traveled, as a group, by bus to Bath. So I didn't need my special Britrail pass to take the train or anything. But...I needed it for today and tomorrow, because obviously I had to get to Exeter and tomorrow I'm going to Stonehenge. I forgot it. I woke up the day we were supposed to leave for Bath at 7:13 A.M. clutching my cell phone like I was in rigor mortis, the alarm obviously silenced for good. We were supposed to be on the bus by 7:15. I made it there by 7:20, and forgot the Britrail pass. Remembered when we got to Bath, though, so it was (through much pomp and circumstance) courriered to me (personally) today. Someone actually got in a car, with my britrail pass, and drove it across the country. People actually do that shit. And it's gonna cost me 40 pounds! These courrier dudes make bank, traveling across the country like the fucking Pony Express, delivering shit, and getting paid in cash to do it. I want that job. I would love that job.
I could be a courrier, couldn't I?
We partied in Bath, which was kinda funny because the whole point of Bath during the 18th and 19th centuries was to see and be seen, promenade and find a husband and all that shit. And we embodied that in our clubbing experience. At least, we embodied the part about seeing, I'm not so sure we necessarily wanted to be seen. At least I didn't. I tried to blend in. But it's difficult when Kate and Eissa find the stripper pole...
We wound up at this bar/restaurant that was having a trivia night, and Kate and I completely owned everyone.
I'm dog fucking tired. I'll give you more later.
P. I. Staker
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Written While Half-Drunk
Just finished what may possibly be the saddest book in the post-modern world.
I just had my first English clubbing experience. My first clubbing experience, period, in Liverpool, two nights ago. It was full of old people - the women in amazing shape, the men bald and fat. Full of young people, too; skin spray-on tanned orange in leather shoes and hot pink tutus. It was ten blocks of people, all faceless, or with faces that all seemed the same either because I was drunk or because they all dressed the same way, thinking they stood out in leggings (everyone wore leggings) or fake eyelashes (girl, please).
Still, it was fun to watch Kate talk to strangers dressed as Alice Cooper only to complain about being hit on by strangers dressed as Alice Cooper. She wanted to seem legitimate, and since she's rocking the mow-hawk she looks British enough. She was wearing the leggings (remember what I said about those things?) and kept up a pretty consistent British accent the entire night. She wanted to practice it - pretend she was British, which was a pretty good accent that fooled a lot of people, but Kate's got a fuck-you-imma-just-be-me attitude that doesn't really gel well with pretending to be something you're not.
Like, say, a punk Brit.
But then I realized that we were all pretending, acting, participating in this giant festival where the script was written by the people you saw around you.
It was a little overwhelming, and we all woke up the next morning two and a half hours later than planned, one of us hungover, two of us still drunk 'cause we didn't hit our stride until we found the tequila bar that had shots for a pound.
Salt, tequila, lime.
You can probably guess which category I fell, by accident, into.
For a while we joked that wherever we went we brought the sunshine, but the weather finally caught up with us and I'm writing this in the rain. It's always hot, so the rain's honestly welcome.
We're going to Bath (Bath!) next week and then Devon, which is exciting for me for reasons I only divulge in the unedited version of this blog (surry).
Then Kate and I go to Stonehenge! Which I'm really looking forward to, because my neighborhood in R-Town is called Stonehenge and I do want to see the rocks that rocked the world.
Ha.
They were probably dropped by Aliens,
P. I. Staker
I just had my first English clubbing experience. My first clubbing experience, period, in Liverpool, two nights ago. It was full of old people - the women in amazing shape, the men bald and fat. Full of young people, too; skin spray-on tanned orange in leather shoes and hot pink tutus. It was ten blocks of people, all faceless, or with faces that all seemed the same either because I was drunk or because they all dressed the same way, thinking they stood out in leggings (everyone wore leggings) or fake eyelashes (girl, please).
Still, it was fun to watch Kate talk to strangers dressed as Alice Cooper only to complain about being hit on by strangers dressed as Alice Cooper. She wanted to seem legitimate, and since she's rocking the mow-hawk she looks British enough. She was wearing the leggings (remember what I said about those things?) and kept up a pretty consistent British accent the entire night. She wanted to practice it - pretend she was British, which was a pretty good accent that fooled a lot of people, but Kate's got a fuck-you-imma-just-be-me attitude that doesn't really gel well with pretending to be something you're not.
Like, say, a punk Brit.
But then I realized that we were all pretending, acting, participating in this giant festival where the script was written by the people you saw around you.
It was a little overwhelming, and we all woke up the next morning two and a half hours later than planned, one of us hungover, two of us still drunk 'cause we didn't hit our stride until we found the tequila bar that had shots for a pound.
Salt, tequila, lime.
You can probably guess which category I fell, by accident, into.
For a while we joked that wherever we went we brought the sunshine, but the weather finally caught up with us and I'm writing this in the rain. It's always hot, so the rain's honestly welcome.
We're going to Bath (Bath!) next week and then Devon, which is exciting for me for reasons I only divulge in the unedited version of this blog (surry).
Then Kate and I go to Stonehenge! Which I'm really looking forward to, because my neighborhood in R-Town is called Stonehenge and I do want to see the rocks that rocked the world.
Ha.
They were probably dropped by Aliens,
P. I. Staker
Monday, June 29, 2009
Debunked
It never rains in England.
What I mean to say, is that I've been in England for two days and it has yet to rain. In fact, it's been blisteringly hot. Hotter than home. So hot my bangs stick to my face most unappealingly and even shorts are uncomfortable to wear. Most of our rooms don't have air-conditioning, because they're old as fuck, so it gets kinda uncomfortable, but it's not so bad if you just let yourself wollow and lay as still as possible next to a window.
So there's one myth debunked.
Another fun fact? The English use the English language all. The. Time. Even when it's unnecessary, always in the classiest of ways. For instance, the nutrition label on the Diet Coke I had at lunch. They had the listed "fats", same as home. But instead of listing "saturated fats", there was a subheading under "fats" that read simply "of which saturated". See? Completely classy.
For fun, locals get drunk on the street and then jump off a bridge into the river Cam, or they get drunk on the street and watch people jump off a bridge into the river Cam. Cambridge is a drinking city, that's for sure - by three in the afternoon all of the benches are littered with empty beer and wine bottles.
I think I'm heading to the Lake District this weekend. I don't really know, but I'll be sure to keep you updated regardless.
The sun sets at 10:30 P.M. and rises at 4:45 A.M.
P. I. Staker
What I mean to say, is that I've been in England for two days and it has yet to rain. In fact, it's been blisteringly hot. Hotter than home. So hot my bangs stick to my face most unappealingly and even shorts are uncomfortable to wear. Most of our rooms don't have air-conditioning, because they're old as fuck, so it gets kinda uncomfortable, but it's not so bad if you just let yourself wollow and lay as still as possible next to a window.
So there's one myth debunked.
Another fun fact? The English use the English language all. The. Time. Even when it's unnecessary, always in the classiest of ways. For instance, the nutrition label on the Diet Coke I had at lunch. They had the listed "fats", same as home. But instead of listing "saturated fats", there was a subheading under "fats" that read simply "of which saturated". See? Completely classy.
For fun, locals get drunk on the street and then jump off a bridge into the river Cam, or they get drunk on the street and watch people jump off a bridge into the river Cam. Cambridge is a drinking city, that's for sure - by three in the afternoon all of the benches are littered with empty beer and wine bottles.
I think I'm heading to the Lake District this weekend. I don't really know, but I'll be sure to keep you updated regardless.
The sun sets at 10:30 P.M. and rises at 4:45 A.M.
P. I. Staker
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Not Yet Gone
So, am I a douche bag for creating a blog for my six-week stay in England?
Urban Dictionary states the definition of douche bag as follows:
the scientific name for schmucks who roll up in public wearing wife-beaters or oversized jeans. Can also be found wearing sunglasses in nightclubs and/or sun-visors on backwards and upside down. These people should be drug outside and shot in the stomach, then used as speed bumps to prevent any neon-toting lowrider crap-mobiles from infesting the neighborhood and lowering property values. Man oh man, a crowd of complete loser douchebags just rolled into the club and not sirprisingly, all the women rolled out the other side and left. Now it's a giant sausage fesitval and we are all screwed. Guess I'll go write a rap song. | ||
Well. I guess I'm not a douche bag in the classical sense of the word, but, am I a douche bag for looking up the definition of "douche bag", mainly because I couldn't spell it? Mayhaps.
That's neither here nor there. What is both here and there, you inquire? I'm going to England on Saturday, and it's being met with a little trepidation (Trepidation - Being scared as shit because of something. And, yeah, I had to look that one up, too, to make sure it meant what I thought it meant.)
So, mild trepidation it is. And here's why:
- My grandmother, my mother's mother and best friend, passed away ten days ago. It's the summer, so my mom's not working, whereas my dad's still working from dawn 'til midnight everyday. That equals loneliness and boredom for my mom, something I know I could alleviate if I were to stay in America. What a weird reversal - I'm worried about leaving my mother alone for six weeks, the same way she's worried about me leaving for six weeks. She's got beach trips planned, though, which is good, fantastic for her actually. I know she'll be all right, but I wish she could get away the way I'm getting away. The beach is good for that.
- The shit that went down with the airbus in France. That shit crashed, big time, into the ocean, with no survivors. Statistically, I know flying's the safest way to travel. But, still, after the airbus went down, there was talk of malfunctioning equipment (ha. haha.) and alluva sudden, American Airlines, Southwest Air, Delta, etc., all started getting their shit fixed. Something about the speedometer not working. And I'll be damned if I'm going down in an airplane because the pilot doesn't know how fast he's going. Realistically? They've gotten everything fixed, no problem. But lying in my bed at night, with the lights out, looking at my ceiling... It kinda freaks me out a little.
- This one's a secret only The Professor and Matty know about. Sorry, kids.
So, the aforementioned bullet points are Reasons Why I'm Nervous. About halfway into this, I remembered a conversation I had with Jason a couple of days ago. Now, he's a big believer in mindsets, self-fulfilling prophecies, that kind of thing. And, Lord help me, I agree with him. I've been thinking about this trip a lot lately (and have probably talked to you about my fears already) and I'm done worrying about it. I'm leaving on Saturday, on American Airlines Flight # 174, and I couldn't be more excited or ready to bizzounce. So, I hereby release my trepidation into the internets to be absorbed by Apollo or Hermes or whoever the god of trepidation is. And, of course, St. Christopher. The patron saint of travelers.
Can't call on the pagan gods without actually speaking to the one I believe in, can I?
Love, lust, jellybean wine,
P. I. Staker
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