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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