It’s weird, I think I’d remember smoking crack. Especially since I don’t even know HOW to smoke crack.
I guess maybe I Googled it?
Because it seems at some point I agreed to go see my family for Easter, and now that the time is upon me, crack seems to be the only rational explanation.
You know the drill, guys: Family = wine = Jesus. May your battle wounds be minor, your chosen numbing agents effective.
And may you also have candy.
Last night I dropped off my CA friends at the airport after their Thanksgiving visit, and they extended an open invitation to come stay with them, or even live with them for a bit, whenever I want.
I suddenly have a million urges to get the hell out of here, if only for a week.
I already have an East Coast vacation booked in January, but my spring/summer wanderlust is looking westward.
Maybe Easter. I feel like going to town on a big fuck-off chocolate bunny while lying by a pool. (All the more reason to keep working out throughout winter, so I don’t scare small children with all this gelatinous White in a swimsuit.)
And they could probably get me a job if I eventually wanted to relocate permanently. I have exactly four skills, but they travel well.
In case any of you ever wonder how I turned out this way, I submit as People’s exhibit A that Easter conversation with my family involved talk of gimp masks, furries, and the “classy” sex shop in the area.
Not at dinner proper, mind — we waited until dessert. We’re white trash, not barbarians.
My dad’s version of Easter: “Happy Easter. Remember the reason. God bless you all.”
My version: “Goddammit! There’s a bee in my apartment!” *murders bee, disposes of corpse, giggles at thought of zombie bee (zombee?) resurrecting in three days*