Travelogue Part 12: Leavin’ On A Jet Plane

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Oh balls, it’s time to go home.

You’ve worked out by now that the posts marked ‘travelogue’ are me recounting some of my adventures here in Americaland while those with ‘vacation scribblings’ are more obtuse, thinky pieces made out of connotation more than denotation. Or if you haven’t worked this out yet, see this paragraph for an explanation. Oh, you just did.

It’s late. I can’t sleep. Tears have been happening. Some of them are sorrowful, most of them are tears of gratitude. The times when I am so ill that I’ve got intravenous tubing going into my arm and resting just above my heart so medication can get into my bloodstream real quick are times when I generally am capable of focusing on a very few, scary thoughts. Such as “Is this the flare-up that’s going to kill me?” Or, “What the fuck is the point of me when all I do is be ill and drain money out of already underfunded health services?”

Jolly, huh?

When I can I focus on the better times in the midst of the worse times. I try to recall my most excellent adventures, that I am loved by many people in many ways, that I have been blessed with a life to live in the first place.

I get the feeling that, while I’m not expecting a flare up as soon as I touchdown in the UK on Saturday morning, I am going to need to grab as many of those memories of the good things and good people as I can to see me through jetlag, reverse culture shock, mourning for the physical absence of this most beautiful of families, and the reality that once I’ve consumed the billions of Jolly Ranchers I’m bringing home, I won’t get any more of them until I somehow find money and strength enough to get my arse back stateside again.

Thanks for reading along with me on my nonsensical renditions of these soul-warming experiences. I’ll be writing more of the same cock-eyed buffoonery when I’m home again so you can hang on in there with me if you like. No pressure. I’ll just be very sad if readers desert me in droves once I’m back in a shitstorm of a country with poor customer service skills and fuck awful weather. And I’m already sad. Why’d you want to make me sadder, you cruel bastards? I mean, you’re all great and I’ll catch you soon.

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