It’s a beautiful spring day in New England today, blags. The temperature has been hovering somewhere around 60 degrees Fahrenheit all day, windows are open, birds are chirping, and I can hear dogs happily fighting one another outside. They’re so much like people.
So, it goes without saying that all of this is bringing on my yearly nice weather anxiety, which I assume is a normal part of everyone’s life. Sure, the weather is thawing and things look beautiful, but what’s the catch? I’m just waiting for that other shoe to drop. Maybe it’ll be a flip flop, which is far less menacing, but the flippy-floppy noise is pretty aggravating. Especially when it’s me making that noise – I get the same feeling when I’m opening a recycled plastic bag in a movie theater. Makes me self-conscious.
Quick digression: When you’re opening a bag, or doing some other thing that makes a really annoying sound in public, just fucking go for it. Don’t do it slowly. There’s no possible way for you to do it slowly enough that it won’t make any noise. Opening a plastic bag is like killing a man – just tear right into it and get it over with. It’s a lot better than going very slowly and making a prolonged racket. That’s a little darker than I meant it to be, but it’s the first comparison I could think of. The point is, killing a man and opening a plastic bag are both somewhere on the same spectrum of unpalatable.
So: why? Why is the near-objectively positive advance of springtime anxiety-inducing (for everyone who’s normal, and not just me)? Because it represents change. Change is terrifying. Also, I have to start thinking about wearing shorts, and the amount of hair on my legs is near-objectively unattractive.
Speaking of change, I have a shitload of it in my backpack and it’s from England. Because I spent last week in England. Will you read about my trip to England? Probably at least a little bit. In fact, you already are. The point of this post is not to detail my travels. That (maybe) will come later. I have plenty of photos, but I’ve already forced one person to reluctantly view all of them. I don’t know if I have the stomach to do that to another human being. Also, I assume most of you hate soccer with a ferventness rivaling that of my love for it, and it’s basically the reason I went to London in the first place.
So, until I find a way to fit this personal Odyssey of mine into something more palatable than a loud plastic bag or soccer, I’ll simply say of my trip: I met some people, I drank some alcohol, I met some more people, I slept on some couches, I watched some soccer, I learned how to curse at the French using only two fingers, I drank more alcohol, slept on more couches, and was repeatedly emasculated by a Scot (joke’s on him – I’ve been emasculated plenty before). Oh, and I puked into the Financial Times. On the Tube. I had a lot of stress to work out on this trip, which perhaps informs some of that behavior.
It’s important to begin a personal quest by defining your own boundaries. Kind of like that scene in the first act of every submarine movie ever, where they take the sub down deep enough to start popping bolts, just to see what happens for no reason. I’m sure the sub has a book in the dash somewhere that clearly states how deep it can go, but the captain does it anyway. Then again, at 26, I know how much I can drink without reverting myself to brain stem autopilot, but I pressed the issue anyway. The Hunt for Red Ale-tober.
Anyway, great trip. I’ll expound later.