Ever get that heavy, hard sick feeling in the pit of your stomach? That twisty, painful, twitchy feeling that comes when you want something almost as much as you despise it? It makes your skin crawl and your temples pound and your whole body feel slimy and dirty.
Lets go back a bit to Italy. Remember, how the other chick got my trip, and planed to party more than appreciate? So, now trip girl and Italy and the whole thing are pissing off my friends for other, selfish, rub-it-in-your-face-and-not-understand-or-respect-the-fact-that-
you-don't-want-to-hear-loud-trip-girl-keeping-you-awake-before-the-early-shift reasons. It's all about respect, people. It's all about respect.
Anyways, trip-girl is obviously enjoying the party scene, and I'm sure Italy is hip-hoppin right along with her. And because of this, I don't much care for trip girl. And you know what? Screw travel. I'm just going to stay home.
So why can't I stop dreaming about real pizza and vinyards and art and things? Why can't I plan a trip of my own, for the Dominican, or Antigo, or Puart Viarta, or Madrid, or christ, even Myrtle Beach??
Trip Girl might be coming to Christmas here. If Trip Girl showes up, I'll be impressed, because it will be Armegeddon, and she'll prove herself as a real cowboy if she makes it more than 5 minutes. And I'll be happy to stand on the sidelines and watch the fireworks, with cheap wine and pizza. Sarah might even bring lawn chairs.
Caio.
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