You know that nothing remotely productive will get done...
I'm very surprised at myself at having kept my blog posts about my big trip to a Big City this week to a minimum. I feel that enough people I know have explained to me the process of getting from my house to the bus, and from the bus to the train. I have to bring exactly three dollars to give to the nice man on the bus, and I have to get off the bus at the place that has a sign that says "Train."
I've packed my bag and made sure that I've got every possible article of clothing I could ever need in the suitcase I borrowed from Mal. I also have thirteen pairs of emergency socks and enough Clonapin to put out a horse; and if not a horse, then certainly a small mule.
I've carefully planned every aspect of the trip from leaving my house with my perfectly applied makeup and wonderfully styled hair. I will smell fresh and clean from the shower, my teeth will be brushed, and I will have applied a fine mist of The Body Shop's Vanilla Eau de Parfume. The ridiculous curl I have at my temple will be nicely woven in with the rest of my hair, and it will not stick out like a devilish horn just waiting to cast evil on the first person it encounters.
I will get on the train and be poised and perfect, not at all like some kind of country bumpkin idiot who's never done this before in her life. I will take out my laptop and sit with perfect posture, typing away as though I have a very, very important spreadsheet to work on because management is expecting this document by five o'clock tomorrow morning or someone's balls are going to be placed directly into a frying pan full of splattering oil.
The spreadsheet that I'm working on will be before me on the screen of my laptop, and everyone on the train will think: Look at that important girl, working on that important spreadsheet. I bet she even knows a code or something to make the little boxes fill with little numbers that she didn't have to type or calculate, because the little code calculates and types them for her! She must be brilliant!
In all reality, I expect that I will actually arrive at the train station, heart racing, wild eyed and hair akimbo, with boots half laced and ridiculous curl overtaking everything within it's path. In all reality, I will whip out my laptop and probably spill the coffee that belongs to the person next to me all over that person's laptop, and then I'll start mindlessly wandering the internet. I'll read up on my TMZ, my People, my Perez. I'll peruse some message boards and break into a debate about the horrors of infant circumcision just as the now coffee-less person next to me peers onto the screen. I'll probably cough and make a lot of gross sounds because the sickness has turned into a wierd cough-like thing accompanied by congestion and a mild fever, and then I'll probably pass out and drool on his shoulder for the rest of the trip.
This will all happen, more than likely, because I'm just so damned excited to be going on a train, like a grown-up girl who knows what she's doing, that there is no way in Hell that I'll be able to sleep tonight. The only solution to a sleepless night is going to be to wire myself up on Orange Juice and Diet Gigner Ale before I leave, and then, once the sugar rush leaves my veins, I'll collapse into unconsciousness and grind my teeth until my seatmate turns to me and kills me.
I feel like a small child on the night before her birthday and if nothing else, this trip will be a testament to the fact that not only have I learned how to sign my own checks -- with my own name, even --but I can also maneuvre myself from one city to another without actually breaking out in an acute case of hives.
However, there is no guarantee about the whole no hives thing until the trip is finished, and I hate to say it? But as soon as I wrote that out, my legs started itching.
Toonses
I've packed my bag and made sure that I've got every possible article of clothing I could ever need in the suitcase I borrowed from Mal. I also have thirteen pairs of emergency socks and enough Clonapin to put out a horse; and if not a horse, then certainly a small mule.
I've carefully planned every aspect of the trip from leaving my house with my perfectly applied makeup and wonderfully styled hair. I will smell fresh and clean from the shower, my teeth will be brushed, and I will have applied a fine mist of The Body Shop's Vanilla Eau de Parfume. The ridiculous curl I have at my temple will be nicely woven in with the rest of my hair, and it will not stick out like a devilish horn just waiting to cast evil on the first person it encounters.
I will get on the train and be poised and perfect, not at all like some kind of country bumpkin idiot who's never done this before in her life. I will take out my laptop and sit with perfect posture, typing away as though I have a very, very important spreadsheet to work on because management is expecting this document by five o'clock tomorrow morning or someone's balls are going to be placed directly into a frying pan full of splattering oil.
The spreadsheet that I'm working on will be before me on the screen of my laptop, and everyone on the train will think: Look at that important girl, working on that important spreadsheet. I bet she even knows a code or something to make the little boxes fill with little numbers that she didn't have to type or calculate, because the little code calculates and types them for her! She must be brilliant!
In all reality, I expect that I will actually arrive at the train station, heart racing, wild eyed and hair akimbo, with boots half laced and ridiculous curl overtaking everything within it's path. In all reality, I will whip out my laptop and probably spill the coffee that belongs to the person next to me all over that person's laptop, and then I'll start mindlessly wandering the internet. I'll read up on my TMZ, my People, my Perez. I'll peruse some message boards and break into a debate about the horrors of infant circumcision just as the now coffee-less person next to me peers onto the screen. I'll probably cough and make a lot of gross sounds because the sickness has turned into a wierd cough-like thing accompanied by congestion and a mild fever, and then I'll probably pass out and drool on his shoulder for the rest of the trip.
This will all happen, more than likely, because I'm just so damned excited to be going on a train, like a grown-up girl who knows what she's doing, that there is no way in Hell that I'll be able to sleep tonight. The only solution to a sleepless night is going to be to wire myself up on Orange Juice and Diet Gigner Ale before I leave, and then, once the sugar rush leaves my veins, I'll collapse into unconsciousness and grind my teeth until my seatmate turns to me and kills me.
I feel like a small child on the night before her birthday and if nothing else, this trip will be a testament to the fact that not only have I learned how to sign my own checks -- with my own name, even --but I can also maneuvre myself from one city to another without actually breaking out in an acute case of hives.
However, there is no guarantee about the whole no hives thing until the trip is finished, and I hate to say it? But as soon as I wrote that out, my legs started itching.
Toonses
posted by Amanda at 00:31
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