Sleep is for Pansies

I'm currently operating on a different plane. The other one. The non-lucid, head-floaty, could probably talk me into a ponzi scheme plane. The one where people are talking to you but you can only look at them blankly before shaking your head and saying, "what?". That plane. Some people call that plane "jet lag". I think that's a negative term for something that allows you to see fairies. And Elvis. With fairies. It's the plane for selecting lotto numbers. And art. And lipstick colors. It's the reason for printed warnings regarding operating heavy machinery. And ABBA. I think you see.

Some people think you have to ingest something to reach this plane. Pharmaceuticals or organic matter best left planted in the earth. But you don't. All you have to do is be awake on one side of the world and then continue to be awake on the other. That's it. Easy.

Now you try. Then we can maybe choose lipsticks together.

I Am Not Quite Gone

1 1/2 days left. No packing done. Shit.

And so, Kansas and I will pack up our little backpacks of fun and spend the next three weeks avoiding frostbite in the forests near Brasov, the streets of Budapest and the outskirts of Prague. Hopefully...at the end of three weeks...he will still be there with me. Sorry, inside joke.

Anyway, like I did in Morocco back in October '06...I'll try and post while I'm there where I can. Maybe I'll even be able to upload a picture or two. Who knows! Though, to be completely truthful...I'd probably benefit from a break in blogging as much a break in working. However, since I know you're all currently tapping into your abandonment issues and crying yourself to sleep tonight at the thought, I'll refrain from refraining. Because I am a giver. And that's what givers do. Give. And blog.

And if ONE more person asks me to bring them back Absinthe...I'll break a bottle over their heads. We have BACKPACKS people...how much room do you think we have?! The last time I tried to bring liquid home in a backpack...the can of Pimms and Lemonade punctured all over a white Moroccan kaftan. It was really quite an imperialistically metaphorical moment. Or it would've been if it had been a can of Pastis. But they don't put Pastis in cans. And I wouldn't bring any home if they did because it tastes like black licorice, which in turn tastes like battery acid. Or what I imagine battery acid to taste like but hope never to find out for sure.

What the eff?! I don't have time for this. Shame on you for distracting me.

Cross your fingers that Kansas and I come back still in love!

Out!