smileytraveler

Somewhere in Florida

Ireland is a blur. I didn't marvel, didn't take a single photo, didn't get as excited about “different” stuff as I usually do. Sounds terrible, right?

I suppose it does sound pretty awful, but I know exactly why I was stricken with a bad case of meh. It all comes down to the way I travel now and what gives me true joy when going off to faraway – or not so faraway – places.

Look, I've traveled so much and been in so many different cities that simply putting boots on the ground and looking at shit just doesn't do it for me anymore. I mean, that's not 100% true. I do get joy marveling at Willamette Falls, no matter how many times I visit, or the European Gothic architecture we have very little of here in the New World.

A few years ago I renounced something I call “frenzied travel”. A style of travel characterized by anxiously jumping from place to place, shoehorning in is many sights, sounds, and stuff as possible, so as not to miss anything. Please understand I'm not making judgement on anyone who chooses to travel this way, but after a few years of doing things this way because I didn't give myself the time to ponder, explore, and enjoy, I was left with an empty feeling upon leaving.

Travel became something unpleasant. I became bitter. What the hell have I worked so hard for? This kinda sucks.

But like 99.9999% of things in life, when one is unsatisfied or disappointed by their circumstances, all it takes is a change of mindset. (The willingness to experiment, even if there's a good chance of failure, doesn't hurt either.)

Since I was with a huge group in Ireland, I sensed frenzy immediately, and like the bitch I am, shrank into my seat, shut my mouth, and vowed to stay along for the ride. This was a terrible idea. I should have gone home immediately. I have no right to ruin everyone else's good time.

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me but I swear to all that is holy, I have pure intentions. I wasn't in the mood to travel. I was sleep-deprived. I just wasn't in the right place.

It certainly didn't help that nobody even wants to have face-to-face conversations anymore, preferring rather to view and absorb the world – and other human beings – through a tiny piece of metal and glass. I can't compete with all the action and attention on the other end of that thing. Apparently, I'm not interesting enough.

That's all I got.

Wander and chill

I can't remember the first time I tried, I dunno...we'll call it freestyle travel. It was years ago and I have no idea where I was. It's possible Michael A. Singer's book The Surrender Experiment had something to do with it, but again, who knows.

I finished my work for the day and was ready to head out. I couldn't bring myself to “find” something to do, or plan anything. I want to blame this on laziness, but frankly I think I just didn't care anymore.

Let's engage in some serendipity today, shall we? So I just marched myself out the door to wander aimlessly and let life happen to me. It was great. I went so slowly that I actually got to talk to people, notice enchanting little things about the city, and didn't mind sitting down at a sidewalk cafe for half the afternoon just to people-watch.

This place isn't going anywhere, I thought. Just freakin' relax!

Traveling this way snapped on a light switch. It was like wandering out of dreary Kansas into Technicolor Oz. Enjoyment flooded back.

There's always a catch

A huge catch. When this began it was the first time I'd ever travelled alone. I want to say it was my choice, but it wasn't. I didn't want to travel alone; I always want a buddy, soulmate, travel partner, etc. by my side. I was highly uncomfortable, awkward. I always felt like people were staring at me. I felt like a target for crime.

But like anything, practice makes perfect. Once I got over the awkward hump I couldn't imagine traveling any other way. Being solo changes everything. There's nobody to confer with, nobody to please, nobody who gets tired, grumpy, or bored. You are 100% in control of your destiny and pleasure.

However, there's also nobody to talk to. Nobody who has your back if something goes wrong. You will most-assuredly feel vulnerable and exposed. But over time, you'll become quite hardened, cautious, almost warrior-like. You'll also become a social and conversational genius!!!

Today, I can go up to anyone and start a conversation about anything. I can engage them, ask them questions, and sometimes even make a new friend to stay in touch with long-term.

Traveling with others is a crutch to putting yourself out there and talking to the locals. Same thing at parties. Holy Moses, talk about awkward. I can go to parties, conferences, and events alone now, too. I don't have to rely on those I trusted to show up and be my date to come through...'cause they quite often cancel at the last minute. (Apparently reliability is no longer a skill society values.)

What I'm getting to is that I have the ability – the skill – of going into the most lonely, awkward situations and making the most of them. And I owe this all to being introduced to serendipitous, solo travel...against my will.

Working Out, Not Just for Muscles Anymore

Social skills are like muscles. You must train them and then maintain them. And, like muscles, they will grow stronger and healthier with time and practice.

When I hear people on the internets bitching about not having social skills and being awkward and lonely and depressed, I wanna be like the wise, old, badass grandma who goes in and tells it like it is:

I dunno what to tell you, sweetheart. But sitting by yourself, at home, on a computer is not going to make it any better. A good first step is cleaning yo ass up, getting out of the house, and being social.

It really is that simple, I promise. Is it extremely, horrifyingly difficult? Hell, yes! Will you feel like you want to die from awkwardness for the first few years? I can almost GUARANTEE it. Actually, as someone who's never had trouble being charming and conversing around other people, and who still feels awkward sometimes, I can't even imagine how shitty it's going to be for you if you're shy. You'll probably want to bring a burlap sack so you can hide in it, tie a knot at the top, and then jump off a cliff. Just sayin'.

But what are the choices here? You alone have to decide which scenario is worse: being alone and depressed, or awkward and death-wishy with perhaps only a slight chance of great social skills forming.

I do know this: there's only ONE way to find out, right?

Portland, Oregon – From a paper journal dated August 17, 2017

(I believe this was a follow-up to my passionate rant. Probably.)

Southeast Portland River Bank

Don't care about Sellwood anymore. Don't care about Division. Don't care about Hawthorne. Or the Pearl.

Don't care about Voodoo Doughnut. Or Tasty and Sons. Or Imperial.

This is the other Portland. A dreary brown beach sparking with what appears to be thousands of tiny glass shards.

Not a hipster in sight.

Lots of Mexican families. Lots of doggies. Not a single kid dressed in felt and crochet. I'm one of five white people I can see.

I like it here.

Poor dude bobbing around in a kayak as the wave runner bros blast by: Woooooooooooooooo!

The world is a messy place. So beautiful and so goddamned horrifying.

I guess when everything is perfect and pristine, when everyone has everything and can experience anything, nothing matters anymore.

Some shit's only wonderful cause other shit's hard.

I remember the malaise, right after I graduated high school (exactly 20 years ago). I still remember exactly where I was: Pines Boulevard, just west of I-75.

Life is too easy.

I'm fuckin' miserable because I haven't had any problems lately. Months and months with no problems.

Was I just bored? Maybe.

I don't know what it was but months without problems and perfection fed to me on a spoon gave me a sick feeling in my belly.

Still does.

At the end of the day, Portland is suburbia. Suburbia full of cool people. But suburbia nonetheless.

Sometimes I just have to be somewhere calm and pretty. Get over the constant weird-seeking.

I was so excited to come back here but, alas, I have to come to terms with the fact that inspiration comes from a very different place now.

Like a high school boyfriend, you're still pretty cool. But I'm happy I now know what else is out there. The crush has faded and you are no longer the center of my universe. You are still cute, but older, grizzled, matured. I think it's time I start looking for a lawyer or accountant.

I looked forward to your adorable little shops, full of adorable little handcrafted things. Now I don't care.

I'm empty while browsing. Antsy.

Later that day, at Laurelhurst Park

Guitars and falsetto.

An island of innocence between the grit and gore of Burnside and NoPo's slow, dusty, almost apocalyptic vibe.

This past year of debauchery was pleasing. But it's got to end. It's time for me to chill the fuck out, get my monk on, and head into the woods to live off my plentiful onboard energy.

All the bike riding and Crossfit was not enough to stem the tide of blubber...I certainly tried. While more is usually better, I'm not sure that applies to chins. It's extremely difficult for me to sit in certain positions because once again your food, wine, beer, horrific donuts, and quirky breakfast joints got the better of me. I have no regrets, but I feel sick. Overindulged. And I'm ready to leave.

It's almost four and I guess I'll try to blow through as many old 'hoods as I can. I'm not dying to move here anymore, nor sad to leave and eager to come back like the olden days.

I guess that makes our time together today quite special.

Settling down somewhere is the worst thing I can think of. But it's probably the best thing for my health, both physical and mental.

Traveling all the time sounds great. But it turns life into one big party. One big “special occasion”. That's the dark side.

Healing, normalcy, familiar faces, routines, and a sense of place are good for humans.

While you have bumper stickers that say “Keep Portland Weird”, other cities have bumper stickers that say “make X weird”. And it seems their campaign is working...everybody's weird now. This trip was disappointing because you're not unique anymore.

I do believe you were on the cutting edge of weirdodom, but now you have competition.

I no longer have to travel here for artsy people. They're everywhere now.

I no longer have to travel here for beautiful nature. I've learned to find it wherever I am now. Even in my flat, seasonless swamp.

I never thought I'd find another place like you. But the truth is, I have.

This trip has been weird.

Portland, while you've certainly changed, I've changed more.

You are still you. Just different.

Maybe back then I didn't notice your faults because I was so in love. I saw no tents. No shopping carts. No doo-doo. Perhaps I overreacted when I called you disgusting the other day.

So it's my last day here and I finally made it to Laurelhurst park. I used to practically live here. It brought so much inspiration to my art career. It isn't quite the murder and mayhem I'd expected. Only a couple pieces of trash. A fresh bank of port-a-cans. No needles. No crackpipes.

It's every bit as fabulous as I remember.

Brilliant green. Gauzy cyan and sea foam. Shade, texture, and light.

The duck pond is still ducky. The guitars and bongos still pumpin'. The beautiful young hippies still neckin'. The acro-yogis still yoga-ing. The tightrope walkers still tightroping. (Those are cool, gotta get me one.) A birthday party with pirate hats and piñatas, lazy families with non-lazy dogs. Oh look! An off leash area!

Maybe in a few years I'll look back on what I write here and miss you, just a little.

From a paper journal dated May 4, 2016

Just jump! I spend too much time agonizing over the right words. Is my grammar correct? What if they think I'm bothering them? What if I look stupid?

Just write. Just hit send. Don't think, just jump.

Better to get it out there than waste brain power.

Write to them. Reach out. Ask for help.

I'm not sure what exactly I was stressed about on this day but it sounds like some kind of business collaboration I was trying to set up and I was, quite clearly, feeling chickenshit.

It's cute reading this now. It has nothing to do with travel or the book, but it's quaint to see where I was mentally just over two years ago.

I'm afraid I took my own advice a little too well. “Just jump.” Oh, honey-child I do that almost daily now and it takes a crap-load of courage.

Unfortunately, after the courage come the consequences.

Somewhere in Florida

Squeaky clean in the morning, sticky-salty by 2. High summer in the tropics. I want to complain, but I just can't. There's something invigorating about sweating this much. Perhaps the word I'm looking for is purifying? Like getting rid of sin.

Supposed to get some work done today. When the thoughts got too busy, we took a walk but in my mind, it was a mini-adventure.

Through neighborhoods. Turned east to splash in waves. Back out onto the road where the people-watching is grand.

I guess he's the new Clyde for this Bonnie. I'll take it. There's no law your Clyde's gotta be human.

This is the final hurrah. Either I put my head down and rip shit up here (in a good, carpe diem, sorta way) or we're getting the hell out.

And I'm not talking “backpacking Europe, travel to cute hostels, start a YouTube travel channel so we can be 'influencers'” kinda get the hell out.

I'm talking Walden Pond get the hell out.

I'm talking go live at an ashram and do God-knows-what-those-hippies-do-there get the hell out.

Wander into the desert, hope some nice Native Americans smoke you out with peyote and teach you how to chill the fuck out and love your life get the hell out.

Not quite Chris McCandless get the hell out, mind you. But each day that goes by I understand that dude a little bit more. I still think he was a selfish prick just up-and-leaving his family the way he did. But sometimes you can't tell your family just what your real desires are. Your “calling in life” is just too crazy for them to understand. Best to leave quietly without incident.

However! You don't have to add insult to injury by burning your college fund, or whatever the hell he did...I can't remember...or abandon your car for someone else to find and wonder if you're dead or alive. That's downright mean.

But Mr. Supertramp, if you can hear me, I might secretly be a little jealous of you. How absolutely free you must have felt in those moments. You know, the car and the college fund and stuff. What better way to take ownership of your decision and give yourself no choice but to move forward. Fear is the most potent inhibitor.

Yes, every year that goes by I give fewer fucks.

Also, every year that goes by I turn up the heat a little more on what it means to live. Y'all think I'm crazy and weird now?

I get the feeling we ain't seen nothin' yet.

Oh my god, y'all, stuff done got dialed up a notch. I was half-joking, kinda sorta, when I wrote my last post.

It was a humor piece. An absurdist take on life in the sterile, vanilla suburbs.

Do I really have time to attend an “appeal” about my dogs shit?

(Again, I'm laughing hysterically writing this.)

I must admit I didn't read the letter thoroughly. Why would anyone waste eyeball space on such ridiculousness? But I just read it over and, lemme tell you, the kid gloves are 'bout to come off.

Ahem, I quote:

Attached is the documentation with the results of the pet waste sample that we collected. You may contest the fine by delivering written notice to the Association within 14 days after receipt of this notice. Upon your request, the matter will be turned over to the Hearing Committee who will schedule a Hearing. You will be notified of the time, date and place where you may appear at the hearing to plead your case before the committee.

First of all, there's no attachment. I can't even see the evidence against my client. So I'll have to waste time asking Management to send me this evidence. Jeez, I thought we were running a proper Shit Court here, people.

Second of all...

Bwahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

“Plead my case?”

“The Committee?”

Are “The Committee” composed of actual human beings whose calling in life is to hear cases relating to dog shit? Am I dreaming right now? Someone jump through the screen and pinch me.

Oh, it...is...on. The Committee better buckle up cause I'm bringin' some horsepower to this “Hearing”.

Not only am I going to dress up a fucking dog in a fucking suit, I'm bringing expert witnesses.

If anyone out there in the write.as community is a geneticist or knows one and wants to help me troll an HOA please reach out on Twitter to @writeas__. (Matt, dude, sorry I'm bringing you into this mess.)

Now I need to figure out the rules of the game. Is it preponderance of evidence or beyond a reasonable doubt? I assume, since it's a civil matter we're going with preponderance.

But you never know with these guys. We could be talking hard time for my schweet wittle angel face.

I will ask them to submit their evidence to council before the trial begins, whereupon I will formulate my defense.

I will ask for a representative of the (snicker) Poo Prints program – a scientist, preferably – to attend “The Hearing” via Skype so I can cross-examine.

No dogs are allowed ever, anywhere on precious HOA property. But, in my letter “submitted within 14 days” I will ask for an exception. Surely the accused has a right to appear at his own trial!

I will ask them to produce witnesses. Did anyone actually observe my client shitting? Were you intoxicated on this evening? Please, describe for “The Committee” the circumstances under which you observed my client shitting.

This is going to be so much more fun than I ever imagined!

Remember kids: idle minds do the Devil's work. I have no client work right now and I'm here trying to entertain myself until I can get the fuck out of this place.

I'm ready for your commands, oh Dark Lord.

#poogate

I'm a little sensitive lately. Been lashing out at people I love an stuff and I can't quite put my finger on why. Luckily, I have the luxury of being alone with my thoughts and thinking about life, which I hear is becoming very hard to do with all these “important” notifications we have to respond to RIGHT NOW and all the important people we have to entertain on Facebook and the like.

Man, I'm at a loss. I'm at a loss with what the hell has happened to people. Every time I bring something up that seems downright absurd to me I'm either ignored or called crazy. Am I overthinking this? Does thinking about something logically truly have its limits? Like, at some point do we reach diminishing returns by dissecting something and turning it on it's head a thousand times? Do we just give up, keep our mouths shut and join the crowd in saying: yeah, man that's the way the world is.?

I guess it is me. I guess I never lost my rebellious spirit. I'm a grown-ass woman but I still question life as if I'm in high school. The sad part is: I know everyone else around me is thinking the same...damn...thing. It takes a lot of courage to speak up. But that's always been the case, right?

For the 17 of you that read this blog, welcome back. I truly appreciate you. I know I've been nebulously sharing family drama lately and when I have the strength I'll go into it in great detail. I'm afraid the post I'll have to write to explain it will be a mini-novel, so I'm gearing up for the day when I'll sit my ass in a chair, not move for a few hours, and let my little fingers run like hell.

But, for now, let's get into reason 487,398 why I think people have lost their damn minds.

Welcome Back, Comrade

A bit of back story. Yes, I've been traveling like a gypsy for well over a decade, but I've always had sort of a “home base”. It's a rental property when I'm not here, but when it's vacant it's somewhere to take a load off, regroup, feel “normal”...you get the idea.

It's a condo we bought back in 2006. Back when we were a we and I wasn't yet just a me.

Yes, it had an HOA. But that's just how it is in good ol' Florida. Let me put it this way: communities without an HOA command a premium. And, if you've ever had the misfortune of living in a “deed restricted community”, you know exactly why people don't mind paying more to buy their freedom.

We bought it, whatever. But, back then I remember bragging to friends in stricter communities how laid back they are here. I was like, yeah, it's great! People are super chill and generally mind their own business. Sucks for you!

Now, I haven't been here in years. Just moved back in to make some repairs, and I'm sad to report that's not the case anymore. My, my, how time changes a people.

I could write an actual novel about what's happened with our Glorious Leaders since I got back here three months ago, but today, we'll just focus on the most entertaining thing.

Same Shit, Different Day

So, I get a dog. I know...my days of travel and adventure are as good as over. I bring him home. I'm stressed AF. He's absolutely stressed AF, having been torn out of one home and circle of trust and sent off with a stranger. I'm trying to get him settled, deal with my own shit, renovate some crap in the house, and so forth. Not four days into bringing him home I get an email from our “Community Manager”. (How fucking sad we need someone to “manage” communities of autonomous, supposedly thinking adult human beings, but this is the world we want.)

I would pull up the actual letter but I'm lazy so I'll paraphrase:

Good afternoon Miss [Redacted],

It has come to our attention that you are in possession of a certain blonde canine. As you very well know, in our Community, all dogs must be registered with the office. During this registration process you will be asked to provide vaccination records and proof of neutering (for male dogs).

Sounds like our modern world, right? If you have balls you're not welcome here.

But, in all seriousness, their request didn't seem that unreasonable. Of course I'll provide vaccination records and whatever nonsense y'all need. I can completely understand that you don't want anyone running around with rabies. Well, no dogs anyway.

Now, whenever something seems reasonable coming from the lips of an HOA, my friends, you haven't been reading long enough.

You are also required to register your dog with our Poo Prints program to ensure a healthy and sanitary environment for all.

I'm sorry...Poo what?

I chuckle a little cause I like the word “poo”. What the hell are they talking about?

Turns out, these lunatics would like to DNA test my dog's shit. If you're asking “why?” right now, congratulations...you are a sane person. But, don't worry. I speak lunatic, so I'll translate.

They would like to DNA test my dog's shit so that, just in case I don't pick up his shit, they can slap me with a big, fat fine. Again, this makes sense on the surface. People are dicks who don't clean up after their dogs. Nobody wants to step in dog dookie while they're walking through the grass, right? Well, suuuurrrree. I guess. I would at least throw ya a bone if I ever actually saw anyone in the grass. I don't. But, what about kids playing?! you ask. Nope. Never see any of those, either. I know there are kids here, but they certainly aren't outside playing...that would just be silly.

Again, on the face of it, this doesn't seem like an outlandish idea. Fine those who don't clean up after their dogs. Full stop. But, ahhhhh, that's where most people would stop using their little God-given bean and call it a day.

I think about it further.

So, you're telling me, you are going to make me do something as ridiculous as DNA test my dogs shit in the first place...fine. But what happens next? Let's explore, shall we? When you find my dog's shit you are going to have to 1. Take a photo of it. (I am not making this up!) 2. Bag up the offender's specimen. 3. Send said specimen off to a lab. A lab containing REAL SCIENTISTS, I presume. 4. Wait to get the results back. 5. When the results come back, take the time to write me a letter, which gives me the option to “appeal”...

Sorry, I'm literally laughing out loud writing this.

5. Then, I can waste more of management's time, and mine, attending the appeal, seeing the “evidence”, which is a photo...of...my...dog's...shit. Read the DNA report. Nod pensively and scratch my chin while taking it all in...

“Yes, yes gentlemen. This does in fact appear to be my dog's shit. I cannot deny such solid detective work.”

I would be offended if this weren't so fucking hilarious. This is solid gold HOA living right here.

So, after aaaaallll this time and effort, why don't they just clean up the shit, on-site, in the grass, and call it a day? Wouldn't that be cheaper for everyone? If you just asked this question, dear reader, you are still a sane human being.

I heard the reason we don't just have maintenance clean up the shit and let everyone get on with their precious lives is because The Board voted it down. Nobody wants to pay for it! they say.

No, no they don't. Instead, these idiots wants to make everyone around them go through this humiliating and downright ludicrous process, taking up valuable sciencing time so some poor schmuck who would rather be curing cancer can DNA. TEST. MY. DOG'S. SHIT!

Really?! Fucking really?

This is the world we want to live in? Seriously, who hurt you when you were a child? Who didn't educate you in school about economics and how opportunity cost works?

I have no reason to complain, so I'll stop. After all, I've never voted in one of these fancy Board Meetings.

But, just cause I can't complain doesn't mean I can't have a little fun...

Have Mercy, Your Honor

I was mad when I first got the letter. We've been busted. Of course I cannot recall a single time when I didn't pick up the detestable feces, except that one time when he had the runs. I bent down to bag it up and it “ran” right out of the bag. Nothing to pick up. Nothing to see here. The rain will wash it clean within hours, fuck off and good night. (It was late.)

Jesus, people! How could you be so petty? But two can play this game. If you take my dog's shit so seriously, so will I.

So I will go to this appeal! I will bring the accused! I will prostrate myself before judge and jury. I will beg for their forgiveness.

(If I pluck a few nosehairs I might even be able to force a tear.)

But I'm not done yet...

I will wear a pantsuit. My client will wear a jacket and tie. I will get him tired first at the dog park so he looks extra sorry.

If this is what it takes to make these people feel important and powerful for once in their lives, I'm willing to do it.

At the end of the day, I just want to get out of this $180 fine.

Yep, you heard that right. ONE-HUNDRED-AND-EIGHTY dollars. For shit.

That's a lot of money for something critters have been doing out in grass for hundreds of millions of years. But, fuck it, I'm bored. You can't find entertainment like this on TV, folks.

Maybe a little humor will soften their hearts. I'll report back on the verdict when this is all over.

#poogate #justice #whatwouldjesuspoo?

Chicago O'Hare

I'm in the seat. I'm buckled in. Oh, baby Jesus take the wheel of the plane and fly oh so high.

I should have collapsed weeks ago. I should have given myself a break and maybe gone outside and looked at birds or something. Why do we push ourselves so hard for things that don't matter and take it out on our loved ones when we're tired, wrecked, grumpy, and borderline psycho?

I'm in the seat, alright, but not in my seat. When I booked this flight I was desperate to get out of Ireland. I usually fly standby on passes but there wasn't a chance in hell of me getting out of there in the next week, so it was either live in the airport for a week (I'm nuts, so could be fun) or use my points.

I've been saving these damn points for over two years. I had visions in my head of going to London, Chile, and maybe back to Mexico. I could have gone to all three on the points I had.

But two nights ago I had to pull the trigger and use my precious, precious points so I could go home and cry alone like a big girl.

They wanted 110k freakin' points for a one-way. It hurt just looking at it. Apparently it's a popular time to fly this route. I feel feisty so I look at the First/Business class offering and they're asking 135k. Screw it. Let's do this – I'm gonna spend it all. I'm gonna get on that damn plane and get me a bed and champagne and they're gonna feed my face and I'm gonna start the journey off right.

I pick my seats. On the connection to my sweet little [redacted] po'dunk town we're on a puddle-jumper so I specifically choose a window alone so I can have some privacy and work on a book I've wanted to write for like a billion years about my crazy travel adventures. I can only write when I'm depressed or angry (couldn't you tell?) so now is the perfect time for productivity!

Once I board the plane for said connection I arrive at my precious seat. There's a body in it. I'm pissed because I'll have to now speak with this person and I don't want to speak with this person.

He's got headphones on and he's happily derping on his phone. Aren't they all?

Me: Excuse me, sir.

Him: [No response. Continues to derp on phone.]

Me: Um, excuse me?

I've got my inside voice on, tuned to sweet little girl.

*Him: [Derp.]

The sweet little girl sits down in the seat across the aisle and must behave rudely by waving her hand in this guy's face to get his attention. I'm surprised how long I have to wave before he notices anything. But not really. Anyone derping on a phone nowadays wouldn't notice a goddamned nuclear bomb if it went off.

He's annoyed. This should be fun.

Me: Hi. Did you specifically request this seat?

('Cause I did motherfucker.)

Him: 3C.

I look puzzled.

Him: I'm in 3C!

His tone is abrupt and he makes brief eye contact before getting back to his phone. He's probably writing the next great symphony and needed some space to reconnect with the muse. That's what I was hoping but, nope, I looked at his phone and it was a movie.

Am I crazy? Everyone's telling me this lately so I don't question him whatsoever. Instead I look above his head and read very slowly what my eyeballs see.

3A

I calmly take my ticket out again and read the symbols, one at a time: 3A.

With a blank expression I take not my seat next to a nice lady who immediately notices what's going on. She's airline staff flying to meet her team in my little po'dunk town.

Nice Lady: Let me see your ticket?

Here.

Nice Lady: Oh, yeah. He's in your seat.

Thank you, Nice Lady. I'm not crazy.

All of a sudden homeboy gets a change of heart and graciously removes his earbuds to speak.

Him: Do you want to switch? I'm happy to do so.

Me: No, that's alright.

I get up to put my bag in the overhead bin.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Oh, yes. Absolutely.

What makes this scene so funny is that my back was turned to him so he didn't know how empty, hollow, and demonic my eyes looked as I'm speaking these words. My voice is Disney Princess with a sprinkle of passive-aggressive.

After Takeoff

Just look at him over there, the smug little shit. He's not looking out the window and daydreaming. He's not writing bitchy blog posts about mean people who steal your seat on airplanes. No, he's got the shade down and is still derping on that goddamned phone.

Hearken! He speaks!

Him: You see, they put me here. My other flight got switched around and...(he trails off)...you know. Crazy airlines. But they assigned me here. Are you sure you don't want to switch seats?

F'n liar. But at least he's starting to act like he gives a damn.

Me: What does your ticket say?

Paper don't lie, bub. I can't remember his answer but I do know that by now I'm so over this guy. Enjoy your darkness and derping.

What am I supposed to do? It's already so awkward I can't switch now. He should have just moved like a gentleman when I waved my hand in his face.

I can't write. All I can do is fantasize about my new enemy, the filthy usurper, 'cause I'm bored and, okay, a little drunk.

I 'aint gonna lie, he's good-looking. He's an obvious former frat boy who grew up into a studly man-bro. So perhaps I could proposition him to get my revenge:

You're a dick. Hey! I'm a dick, too! Whaddya say we have angry sex in the airport broom closet while hating each other and ourselves?

I could then smack him in the face repeatedly while screaming you like that, dickhead?!

This way there would be no jailtime for me.

Chicago O' Hare

Only two hours and change until I can collapse, cry, and think about life. I may have ruined my reputation in the family forever for speaking my mind but, Jesus Christ, I'm too exhausted to care.

I shouldn't have been there. I knew what would happen. But what can I do. Evidently I'm incapable of lying right now. I'm incapable of looking someone I love in the eye and telling them a fairy tale about how I feel. Just can't do it.

Parents listen up. No matter how afraid you are of talking about your feelings don't raise your kids to be ashamed to tell you whats going on in their minds. Get the uncomfortable shit out of the way when they are young. Talk to them. Be tough as hell on their asses but don't go silent when they bring up some shit they'd like to work out with you. Don't turn your back when they need you the most and then tell them they need medication for having normal, human feelings and thoughts.

On a brighter note, the restrooms right outside Gate G at ORD are pretty pimp. I think I found a hidden gem. Marble on everything, big stalls.

I'm grasping here for a nugget of goodness. Fine, talking about a nice airport bathroom is weird. But I'm proud of myself for once for taking notice of the little things in the world around me and appreciating them.

10% battery left and I have no fancy European plug converter thingie. But I still feel like writing.

Last night I had all my shit on the balcony and planned an escape. I would take my shit upon my shoulder and jump out onto the walkway below. From there I would find a kind cabbie and arrange a fare to the airport whereupon I would board the first flight to the Eastern United States.

From there I would bravely either drive home in a rental car or find a Lyft if I were close to the homebase (always Lyft, guys, never UBER).

This is a crazy idea. But, if we truly want to “do whatever we want” in life, it's certainly an option. Otherwise, why do we fight for it?

All it takes is a 'lil bit o' balls. They'll understand.

I didn't do it.

Hence, I'm on the balcony. Getting tired. Wondering if I could get away with sleeping out here.

I'm still on the balcony and everyone's asleep inside. In our fabulous modern day it's always nice to know you can still talk to a blinking cursor when you feel lonely.

I'm good at metaphors, so here goes:

People love artists because they want “pretty” art in the world. But when you have an artist in the family it kinda sucks because you know how the sausage is made.

Nobody wants to see it. You want the arts. So someone makes the arts for you. Yay.

Nobody actually wants to see the weirdo who makes the arts or hear the weirdo, they just want the arts. Strip the pretty thoughts out and leave all the sewage for someone else to deal with.

How I envy those fancy New York artists who are secretly psycho but have the loft and the friends and the parties and who can abide by the rules and never offend (to your face, atleast).

When you see beauty in a shopping bag you have no problem telling the truth. Cause, who. Fucking. Cares?

Who cares?

You can wear ugly shoes and sing loudly on the street when your headphones don't work and you can't listen to that song, and tear out pieces of your house when they get in your way and ask homeless people incredibly “politically incorrect” questions even though you love them as human beings and are genuinely interested in their life and how they got “here”.

But people don't like when you do these things. They don't like when they ask you a question and you answer honestly.

And you'll begin to believe you are borderline Aspergers, but are more confused than ever when you see that the most popular Instagram posts are all about “no fucks given”, “messy hair, don't care”, “namaste in bed”, “strong women who don't speak their minds never made history”, and on, and on.

Try actually living a popular Instagram post, just for a day. I guarantee you will feel like absolute shit. You will probably lose friends. Your family will probably be embarrassed of you, if not totally avoid you.

Some will recommend medication to bring you into line.

But after you accept feeling like shit, dude man, you'll feel like a bird. Anyone who says “no fucks given” hasn't ever really given zero fucks, If they did, they'd feel like motherfuckin' Gandhi due to the overwhelming inner peace.

Gandhi never had to advertise how many fucks he gave on Instagram.

I still give a few fucks. I'm not at zero yet. I'm still at about 20% fucks. But every year that goes by I lose a percent or two.

When I achieve Fucks Nirvana I'll scream it from the rooftops.

Until then: Keep Calm and Carry On. Fuck the Man. And the Future is Female.

(I should have said The Future is Female then Fuck the Man...would have flowed better.)