Eurotrip II: Trip Harder
It's hard to put a picture in my head of what Europe will be like. Unknown places, people, and experiences await me in the next two weeks, and I suppose all I can do is grab on and have a blast. I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand. I hope the Pacifi- wait, what the hell?
Despite the fact that Colin is the only person who just caught that Shawshank reference, I continue.
I think I'm going to miss this little one horse town much more than I ever thought I might. It's strange to imagine two weeks without Eastern Avenue, without the girls we met in 6th grade and turned out to still be our favorites, without the same old guys, or the one-and-only Cara. Two weeks out of this three-foot square box of space I've spent about a fifth of my life for the past six years. Life out of Sacramento used to seem so appealing, and suddenly its pretty depressing. But of course I can always get lost in the sauce* if I get homesick.
*As far the Jesuit administration is concerned, "lost in the sauce" means praying. And not getting drunk. I swear.
Long goodbyes aside, I'll be back before most people notice or particulary care, but just in case anyone feels like dropping a message where I'll be able to pick it up:
Call 1-800-706-1333
Press star (*) then two (2, you dumb fuck).
Enter my account number (206 835 0364)
And leave a message at the pooter.
Despite the fact that Colin is the only person who just caught that Shawshank reference, I continue.
I think I'm going to miss this little one horse town much more than I ever thought I might. It's strange to imagine two weeks without Eastern Avenue, without the girls we met in 6th grade and turned out to still be our favorites, without the same old guys, or the one-and-only Cara. Two weeks out of this three-foot square box of space I've spent about a fifth of my life for the past six years. Life out of Sacramento used to seem so appealing, and suddenly its pretty depressing. But of course I can always get lost in the sauce* if I get homesick.
*As far the Jesuit administration is concerned, "lost in the sauce" means praying. And not getting drunk. I swear.
Long goodbyes aside, I'll be back before most people notice or particulary care, but just in case anyone feels like dropping a message where I'll be able to pick it up:
Call 1-800-706-1333
Press star (*) then two (2, you dumb fuck).
Enter my account number (206 835 0364)
And leave a message at the pooter.