Bzzzzzz. Tzzzzzz. Bpfiiif! The little-kid-on-christmas-eve feeling that’s crowding my head right now, and making it impossible to accomplish anything except running around my apartment in circles in between half-read paragraphs of Despite Everything.Well, ok, I also washed a dish. Maybe even two. I’m not too keen on having the fruit flies squat my place while I’m gone. And I’m sure as hell not going to have time to wash dishes tomorrow. I’ll be on the way to Karlsruhe where I’m meeting Mr.-Someone-or-Other Jochem (if I disappear, find him and kill him) who’s driving me to Amsterdam. (Pray he doesn’t force me to listen to top ten radio techno. Yes god damn it, get down on your knees and take one for the team.) From Amsterdam it’s one more train to the Hague, and then two weeks of a whole lot of things that I should have been doing this whole time. Exploring new dumpsters. Finishing that zine. Biking biking biking. Climbing around rooftops. Reading in the sun. Plotting mass chaos and international world takeover. You know. Vacation stuff.
And then! Yes then! I’ll be on a plane to Dublin to play with bikes and drink frothy stout for another week. I get the feeling that a messenger championship will be a lot more fun when I don’t have to wake my three-days-worth-of-exponentially- multiplying-hangover-just-slept-on-a-concrete-slab-by-the-river-bank- after-taking-some-really-bad-drugs ass up to work at the beer tent at 11 am. (Don’t be fooled. I loved every second.) Anyone know anything about squats and such in Ireland? Google’s telling me there hasn’t been anything since Leeson Street got evicted in, what, 2004? I don’t buy it. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy.
There’s one more week of vacation after that too, but I’m leaving that one up to the weather gods, the hitchhiking gods, the dumpster gods, the gods of indecisive anti-planners, all those rad cats who always seem to be looking out for me. I like to think of it as something like a surprise party, except a vacation. And if I’m real dedicated, and yer real lucky, I’ll come out of it all with a few finished zines, and a whole bunch of purdy new graffiti pictures. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy.
Why is it I haven’t felt this alive in months? This energetic? Oh right. Work.
I like my job, yeah. I usually like it a lot. It’s an endless story-mill, that’s for damn sure. But anything that takes place at 6 am besides finally going to bed’s still got that soul sucking corporate death leech feel sometimes, you know? Still leaves Queen Hypochondriac’s wondering if chronic fatigue syndrome is actually the reason why she doesn’t have enough energy to do a damn thing but take four naps a day. Still leaves room for the wrong kind of dread, for actually having to think about whether not patching that hole in the knee of my pants or never, ever brushing my hair really matters, for paperwork, for having to pretend I’m in a really really good mood even when I’d rather just give everyone a big paper cut and run screaming out of the room.
I guess vacation got here just in time. Whew.
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