On Tuesday, June 13th, I'll board an overcrowded, understaffed Southwest Airlines direct flight from Las Vegas to Louisville, Ky. Approximate time in the air: 3 hours, 5o minutes. Approximate time sitting next to an old lady who smells like mothballs dipped in urine, flying back to Kentucky after blowing her life savings on slot machines and rancid buffets: 3 hours, 34 minutes (I assume she'll get up once to empty her colostomy bag).
In the meantime, I've never been more emotionally removed from life; and I'm doing it on purpose. I have this irrational yet extremely real fear of meeting the love of my life right before I move away. Why? Because that's my fucking luck, that's why. I'm not talking to any local strangers or distant acquaintances before I leave. I'm going out Saturday night and I'll only address tourists, because that's what I feel like right now. I'm a tourist who has to go to work every day (lousy travel agent). If by chance some plump Midwesterner grinds her ass into my crotch to the strained beats of some insipid Black Eyed Peas song, I'll say "I'm here for the weekend, too. Where ya stayin'?" Then I'll buy her an overpriced FruityTooty martini and she'll ditch me moments later. I can't wait. I might even drink slushy cheap-tequila margaritas from a novelty-sized plastic replica of the Sphinx.
Why do people who barely know me act like they're so sad to see me leave? A cashier at Home Depot practically begged me to stay and she never said more than "Good morning" to me in the months I've been aware of her existence. Does she secretly like me? I'll never know, because I don't plan on speaking to her again. Can't take the chance.
I shouldn't have mentioned the Black Eyed Peas. Just typing their name angers up my blood. They may be the worst musical group ever. The old gray mare who just won 'Idol' should join the Black Eyed Peas, creating a shitheap sound mosaic that could very well lead to the end of civilization as we know it. And on the last day in the history of Earth, as rivers boiled, mountains crumbled, and the undead roamed the contaminated soil feasting on the brains of the living, I'd finally meet the love of my life. Son of a bitch!
In the meantime, I've never been more emotionally removed from life; and I'm doing it on purpose. I have this irrational yet extremely real fear of meeting the love of my life right before I move away. Why? Because that's my fucking luck, that's why. I'm not talking to any local strangers or distant acquaintances before I leave. I'm going out Saturday night and I'll only address tourists, because that's what I feel like right now. I'm a tourist who has to go to work every day (lousy travel agent). If by chance some plump Midwesterner grinds her ass into my crotch to the strained beats of some insipid Black Eyed Peas song, I'll say "I'm here for the weekend, too. Where ya stayin'?" Then I'll buy her an overpriced FruityTooty martini and she'll ditch me moments later. I can't wait. I might even drink slushy cheap-tequila margaritas from a novelty-sized plastic replica of the Sphinx.
Why do people who barely know me act like they're so sad to see me leave? A cashier at Home Depot practically begged me to stay and she never said more than "Good morning" to me in the months I've been aware of her existence. Does she secretly like me? I'll never know, because I don't plan on speaking to her again. Can't take the chance.
I shouldn't have mentioned the Black Eyed Peas. Just typing their name angers up my blood. They may be the worst musical group ever. The old gray mare who just won 'Idol' should join the Black Eyed Peas, creating a shitheap sound mosaic that could very well lead to the end of civilization as we know it. And on the last day in the history of Earth, as rivers boiled, mountains crumbled, and the undead roamed the contaminated soil feasting on the brains of the living, I'd finally meet the love of my life. Son of a bitch!
12 Comments:
Wait, what? You're moving home permanently??? I must've missed a post. Noooooo! Don't go!
Are you getting excited yet?
As a plump midwesterner, I take offense.
If you have *really* bad luck, you'll meet your soulmate on the plane. And it'll be the mothball lady.
Maybe you will get lucky, like I did on the plane from Vegas, and get to sit next to a 400lb Avon lady. Sweat and Avon, does it get any better?
ha.
you will be seated next to some hot girl on the plane. there will be a hand job under the little blue blanket. im psychic you know. (or is that psychotic? I forget.)
I have the same fear (and not just the mothballs dipped in urine part).
Cladeeedahhh - I already tried to get him to stay. He won't take the bait. There's a Bucca in Louisville waiting for him and maybe a handful of friends. You know I kid Todd.
I'll spoon with you, but that's as far as it goes.
baby, this move will put you about 1500 miles closer to ME!!!!!!
claudeedah,
I think you did miss a post.
kat,
my excitement is exceeded only by my dread.
cherry,
that shit is terrible.
ubie,
have you not read any of my posts? I LOVE plump Midwesterners. Hell, I have to diet in hopes of only being plump.
violet,
does the mothball lady have a lot of money?
little red,
don't cry. Are you someone I know from Vegas or someone who reads the blog?
awe,
when I moved here, I sat next to an old man who lived on every street in Louisville; and he described each place he resided in great detail.
dawn,
thanks for the comment. I guess you're right; it's like I've been paroled.
solethoughts,
thanks for the well-wishes.
cold hands,
I'm so jealous that the guy in the aisle seat will be getting a hand job.
pants,
I'm glad someone else has that fear.
kath,
I guess anything is possible.
egan,
I gots me lots of friends back there.
nick,
that is quite the tempting offer.
le chat,
it's a step...
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