“I just caught a plane from Denver, and boy, are my arms fucking killing me anyway.”
There are sights to see, places to be; people to find, which puts us in a bind. The deadline is looming over our heads like the beginning of a windy, destructive thunderstorm. As we get closer to our destination, it feels like we are only getting further away; frantically grasping at the map to figure out which incorrect turn we took about twenty-five minutes ago, when none of us were paying attention because we were all getting into a Pavement record while smoking cigarettes or something desperately credibility attaining yet patently ridiculous like that.
All good things come to an end, but bad things seem to linger on, outstaying their welcome and reminding you of it constantly. Some may consider this to be a cynical outlook, but when riding around in the Magic Machine with the space cadets, it is merely realistic. Terrible comments are coming from every direction, and aimed at every other direction. “You know, I could stab myself in the eyeball with a knife right now... hey, I could stab your eye, right now. Isn't that interesting?” Everyone takes a nervous drag, exhaling slowly in an ineffectual attempt to relax.
Eventually, we arrived to the Phoenix, Arizona Central Business District, and breathed a collective sigh of relief as we all knew that this was the moment when the true partying would manifest itself. I shot down some of the other suggestions (harassing Mormons, street art, heroin cinema) in lieu of checking out the Phoenix bar scene, knowing that there would be some pretty cool people there. Lo and behold, I was correct, and my friends were quite impressed: within ten minutes, we were all having thrilling conversations with young urban professionals.
It took us many weeks to get back home, because inevitably all of us got lost, phones long since smashed and laying in a water fountain, having a little bit too much fun with what would be, in retrospect, not necessarily the right kind of people. (Many of these people admitted to voting Republican, and nearly all of them possessed offensively over sized automobiles.) To make matters worse, all of us depleted our bank accounts on various life essentials (dental hygiene, illicit drugs, casino visits, Friday night pizza). It is not a pleasant thought to have to consider starting over life anew in the charming blob that is Phoenix. Of course, one of us contacted the old folks, who were willing to bail us out “for the last time, goddammit.”
Don't blame me for avoiding the beach, or camping trips, or the snow, or whatever the fuck else you over-privileged dickwads aspire to waste your weekends with. I've had enough of this directionless, ultimately pesky travel, and I can take it no longer. From now on, the most exotic thing I am ever doing is plugging in the video player to watch decayed VHS from the 90s. You can find me at home: eating biscuits, rarely engaging in movement, and gradually fulfilling my lifelong dream of morbid obesity.
