it's a good goddamn time to be leaving the city of chicago, especially since my toilet broke monday and everywhere i turn some bitch is still trying to make jeggings happen. cut it out, ladies. and fruity hipsters. those are not pants. the maintenance dude still hasn't come up to fix it, and one of the hippies who manages my building left me a message that he couldn't come yesterday (OR the fucking day before) because of some, and i quote, "more urgent matters." now i don't know what the fuck the other people in my building are goddamned doing, but what could possibly relegate "toilet leaking pissy lake water onto my bathroom floor" to the bottom of the fucking list? and maybe you don't know me very well, but rest assured that i don't keep old piece of shit rags hanging around, so my floor is blanketed with expensive ass calvin klein towels. BLARF. and don't bother picturing a huge lincoln log turd clogging the situation; you should already know that with this crohn's i don't even fucking MAKE huge turds. i'm a raggedy toilet's dream. anyway, i was home monday doing domestic shit like pouring bleach down the kitchen sink and folding the laundry i washed two weeks ago, (sidenote: helen is TERRIFIED of the swiffer. i'm not even kidding! if i even go near that shit she skitters across the floor to run and hide behind the pillows on my bed! sometimes, when she is being particularly horrendous and i am feeling particularly filled with the wrath of satan, i chase her around with it, laughing while she hisses and screams. that little jerkass deserves it. she's the reason i have to swiffer so fucking much anyway. so too bad, bitch.) when it dawned on me that i'm leaving in a few days and haven't really done SHIT to prepare for it.
i got hoes in different area codes, and this week i'm going to see some of them. the ones who live in san diego at least. and i might never come back to my stupid cat in my stupid (although currently spotless) apartment with my stupid job and my stupid non-california friends. holy fuck do i love california. chicago is all dirty and gross and full of fat dudes in bears jerseys, while california is teeming with sunshine and artificially tan barbie doll people with plastic hair and giant teeth made of elephant tusks. the second i got back from my last trip i was like, "i need to fucking MOVE THERE." and i would, but i hate things like "moving" and "looking for an apartment" and "finding a new job that doesn't suck balls" and "trying to make new friends who are as ridiculously great as the ones who live where i already live." plus i'm not that great at directions and i hate walking around with my nose in a map like some godforsaken tourist. plus, i'm dumb. so there's that.
here is why i'm too retarded to travel:
1 i had to buy my own tickets and didn't really know how. i've flown plenty of times in my life, and all of those tickets have been arranged for by either a secretary or a hot dude. how the fuck should i know whether you go on the internet or call a travel agent or whatever? when i went to california last year i told mel when i wanted to go and he scheduled it and paid for it and faxed me an itinerary. i'm not used to this whole performing menial tasks thing. and i didn't even really do it on my own this time; i shouted across the office to laura. "what time should i leave?" "what time should i fly home?" "should i pay for early bird check-in?" "do you think it will be a full flight if i leave at two?" "when is the plane the least likely to be full?" i don't know that kind of shit! and even after i purchased them i kept worrying that i'd made some kind of horrible, irreversible mistake, that i'd probably chosen the flight most likely to be packed with screaming, teething spoiled toddler brats or rickety old senior citizens who need help getting into or out of the bathroom. listen up, airlines: i will pay WHATEVER YOU WANT if i somehow could get a list of my fellow passengers and their irritating quirks (and by "quirks" i mean "wives and children") before i choose to purchase a seat on that flight. it should read something like this: john johnson, age 53; traveling alone; although he is a scant 5'6" tall, he will lean his seat all the way back into your fucking diaphragm; beware he does this weird throat-clearing thing at 30-second intervals that will drive you to suicide if you are forced to sit next to it for more than a minute and a half. wouldn't that be so great?! i'd pay for that shit and i MEAN IT.
2 i don't have a fucking suitcase. and apparently everyone else knew that except fucking ME. last week corey was like, "do you want to borrow my carry on?" and i gave her the gas face and was all "NO. why?!" (i'm an asshole) then she said, with an attitude that i TOTALLY deserved, "well didn't you use sarah's suitcase the last time you flew?" smug bitch. as a matter of fact i did use sarah's suitcase last time. and i hadn't given it even an ounce of thought. i guess i was just planning to throw a thick book and a couple pairs of underwear into my purse (i carry a rilly, RILLY big bag) and keep it moving. and maybe an extra black shirt. i wear pretty much the same fucking thing every day anyway, so who cares? i'd give a thousand dollars to anyone who could tell the difference between any of my everyday clothes. it's all black. searching through my dresser is a pain in the dickhole, because i have to pull everything out to figure out what the hell it is. ("no, not that low cut black t-shirt, i wanted this low-cut black t-shirt!") i folded nineteen black t-shirts last night, and the whole time i was thinking, "this really is a fucking sickness." idiot. so i went on zappos last week to try to find a stylish tote big enough to travel with (i'm too fancy for that rolling rectangle shit, BLAH) and discovered another reason i can't ever do anything right: i don't know a goddamned thing about measurements. heaven help me if i'm ever robbed on the street, because i couldn't tell you if my assailant was 5'11" or 6'2". my brain doesn't work like that. here's a tip, purveyors of online luggage: describe things in a way a dumb bitch can UNDERSTAND. ie, instead of 12" x 36" x 17" maybe you could say "will hold one pair of jeans, two shirts, a week's worth of panties, some flip flops, your cell phone charger, and a book that you'll never have time to read because BITCH, YOU'RE ON VACATION." so i ordered this fancy bag that i sort of hate now but it's too late to find something else, and now i think i'm just going to take my beat up patagonia messenger bag that would be better served on a camping trip i never in my life would ever take. fml.
3 i can't really grasp those airline regulations. i would rather look like a goddamned terrorist than spend even ONE DAY without my favorite hair product. if i could shave it all off like i want to it wouldn't be such a big deal, but i'm growing it out, remember. which means it NEEDS SHIT. you white people have it easy; you can just walk into any walgreens or salon in whatever town you happen to be in and find something comparable to whatever it is you use at home, if not the EXACT SAME THING. i can't walk around california for a week with dusty slave hair and a nappy kitchen, no sir. i asked laura how many 3 oz containers i was allowed to take and whether or not there was a restriction on pills (i take SO MANY PILLS) and how much of my shit had to fit in a gallon sized ziploc which she informed me needed to be a QUART sized ziploc and i was immediately exasperated. i'm a bohemian when it comes to personal grooming, so i don't need anything but my hair gel and some scented oils, but all this is just so STRESSFUL and i don't LIKE it. then laura was talking about how i have to be put together properly when i go through the security line and how everyone in the airport will hate me if i take to long to get out of my belt and shoes. that's so much pressure! isn't there some sort of handicapped line i can go through?! should i just wear my metal braces and smile apologetically at everyone behind me as i unstrap them so they don't yell at me? can i pin a handicapped sticker to my shirt? what kind of shoes should i wear? should i forego the belt?! it takes me forty-five minutes to get out of the bed in the morning because i go to bed outfitted like a hockey goalie (draper said that), can i really be expected to zip through a security standpoint?!?!?!!
4 airports are full of the WORST PEOPLE ON EARTH. in my real life i am separated from people who wear mickey mouse sweatshirts as their real clothes and consider dinner at chili's a "night out" by geography and skin color, but there's no way to get the fuck away from them when you're all trapped waiting for the same effing plane. it's always some fat bitch from minnesota wearing drawstring pants and eating a mcgriddle letting her kid jump all over your fucking suitcase, despite the fact that that little asshole is ON A FUCKING LEASH. well not on MY suitcase, because i wear dark sunglasses and scowl and hiss at anyone who comes within a ten foot radius of me and my possessions, but on everyone else's shit. which is just as upsetting as if he were to jump on my own. i fucking hate bad ass kids. blarf. and someone is always crying while someone else is shouting into a cell phone and some other someone else is yelling at his teenage daughter to stop flirting with the inbred TSA dude. everyone is always so rude and so loud and so sitting on top of you, and that makes me a little crabby appleton, snarling and sneering at anyone who has the nerve to even look my way. this is going to be so awful. wahhh.
5 i'm worried about the goddamned cat. i kid you not when i say that the toughest decision i've had to grapple with in recent history was whether i should drug helen keller and drag her to the kennel or have someone come into the house every day to feed her and give her five minutes of delicious human interaction. when i was gone last time john stayed at my place and beat off all over my clean sheets (TRUE STORY), but at least he dropped me off and picked me up and kept her majesty company during my absence. what is she going to DO all day and night? she'll be so bored! our codependent relationship (and the occasional plate of fresh grilled salmon) is the only bright spot in her life. SAD. i could leave her at work, but then she'd be confined to kitty jail and subjected to the slags i work with making fun of her and poking her with sticks or something. but she'd have people to bite on and look at, at least. but leaving her home means i have to pay someone to go through my shit and watch judge mathis with his shoes on in my bed and eat all of the food in my refrigerator, ie "take care of helen keller." and i don't care about anyone rifling through my secret shit; all you're going to find is porn and unpaid bills, and by all means HELP YOURSELF. i'm just scared that helen is going to be howling at the door for hours on end waiting for me to get back. also, if she stays home her diet goes to SHIT since i'm not having anyone come over more than once, then we're right back where we started. sixteen pounds of pure, unadulterated menace. and i know she really doesn't give a flying fuck, but agonizing over her means less time picking which black t-shirt looks best with a black sweater. dummy.
6 drunk + irritated - food = TERRIBLE TRAVELER. i stop eating solid food a good 24 hours before any scheduled trip, because i have an intestinal disease and trying to hold diarrhea for five hours on an airplane just ain't happening. even the THOUGHT of being trapped in a small place with burning guts makes me cry a little. so i just don't fucking eat. and i likes to have me a cocktail or twelve before boarding time, and that plus the empty belly makes me the most ridiculous piece of snatch EVER. this should be interesting. i'm supposed to hang with some dude thursday, and you KNOW i don't believe in that "i'll just have a salad" bullshit, so i have to figure out a way to make it a non-food date without 1 looking like a fucking idiot or 2 doing something i don't wanna, like bowling or the goddamned arcade. and i'm going out with him after work, which is another stupid idea. "hi, nice to meet you, there are 700 different types of cat hair ALL OVER MY SHIRT." so we'll see what i can come up with that won't make me look like a raging alcoholic (nothing) or someone who just started dabbling in anorexia. or maybe we'll just go get a bunch of tacos and i'll be that bitch aeveryone hates who made the entire cabin smell like partially digested D grade beef. because fuck them.
everyone keeps asking me if i'm excited yet and no one believes that my real answer is "NO." i'm too stupid to travel, that's why i need a man who is rich and refuses to fly commercially. fuck, dude. i'll start getting excited the minute i can smoothly put my shoes back on in front of hundreds of onlookers without falling over or asking for help, but only if i'm not super late because the orange line out to midway fucked up its schedule. (or i left my place late, which is typically the case.) i'll be excited if this dude isn't lame and i can avoid shitting the diaper i'm thinking about wearing. i'll be excited if i have enough hair product and if all the black shirts i take are my good black shirts. i hope helen doesn't maul the sitter (i'm a SUCKER) and i hope that whoever sits next to me doesn't smell like gravy and old socks.i'll be excited when i GET THERE.