Young Michelle and I are embarking on a voyage to the MotherLand, England, for two weeks on December 28th through January 11. We leave in ten days. I would be lying if I said I wasn't bloody fucking ecstatic, because I am. Community College has pushed me to the brink of insanity, so I am in dire need of an escape. It was London or the asylum. Over much thought and deliberation, I chose London.
A question I have been asked multiple times by multiple assholes, is this: "WHY?"
Why, what? Why are we going to London? What kind of ridiculous question is that?
Ask me why, and I'll ask you, why not? Why do I need a reason to see the world? Aside from a potential nervous breakdown, which is clearly just me being dramatic in the wake of all my finals, I really have no fucking reason to go to London.
Frankly, I'm a bit annoyed at this question.
Meesh and I have no plan. We have our hostels booked, and that's about it. We also don't have money. Meesh plans on spending 500 dollars for the whole two weeks. 250 dollars a week, which is 170 pounds. We're going to be incredibly hungry and frozen solid in the 40 degree weather. We're going to be dragging our legs around London peering into people's windows at lavish Christmas feasts. We're going to steal bread crumbs from birds. Why would we subject ourselves to frigid weather and starving bellies for two weeks? Because we're out of our fucking minds, that's why. So essentially what we have here is no plan, no money, and no sunshine. For fifteen days. It could go so wrong, but it could also go so, so right. I have no expectations. I'm prepared for the worst, and hoping for the best. It sounds like a nightmare to most, but to Michelle and I, it sounds like a grand adventure full of promise and British accents. Just think: Meesh and I will be gallivanting around London on New Years Eve, presumably with a bottle of soul-warming red wine, with wind-chapped faces. We'll be in and out of pubs all night, and when the clock strikes midnight, we will Eskimo kiss and skip through the city in jubilant spirits. Wishful thinking.
Here is what will really happen in London, on New Years Eve: Michelle will go fucking crazy. This always happens to me when I do something extraordinary with someone who is timid and reserved. Meesh will do everything she doesn't do in America and has always wanted to do, and I'll have to act slightly responsible. Meesh will do all of the following: drink massive amounts of liquor, talk to people, say the word "fuck", dance at a rave, eat meat, have sexual intercourse with a male model, smoke cigars, wear crotchless panties, spread holiday cheer, believe in Jesus, GLITTER, admit she is Russian, pretend Grand Theft Auto is real and steal a double-decker bus, lick the Queen mum's face, and devour bird seed. These are all things I was planning on doing, and now I won't be able to. Picture Michelle, amber-eyed, Russian peasant boy Michelle, frolicking through the cobble-stoned streets of London with a bottle of Maker's Mark and a big ol' chicken leg hollering at dogs and spitting on old British ladies' mink coats. I think that it's good. Picture Michelle, no-voiced, wispy-haired, Vegetarian Meesh, facing the elements and imagine how this will effect her mental state. I think that it's good. Picture Little Meesh, screamer of the cold, hater of winter, in the coldest wintery-est place that ever fucking existed besides a few other places that are more cold and wintery. I think that it's good. Picture Meeska, Lexi's Eastern European mail-order bride, giggling all over London and sitting outside of the male modeling agency, fulfilling a fucking dream she has dreamnt one thousand times before. I THINK THAT IT'S GREAT.
I'll call you from Jail.
Tea and Crumpet?
No, we can't afford that.
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