Well the world didn't end.
Or, if it did, the afterlife is weirdly similar to my regular life.
It didn't though, because I'm pretty sure hell would have a permanent
Justin Bieber soundtrack. Anyway, I'll stay away from all the apocalypse
and Mayan jokes, mostly because I've been abusing them on Twitter.
First off, Merry Christmas
everyone! Or Happy Holidays if your Jewish or just generally hate people
wishing you the best. You know what? I take that back, I hope your
holidays are mediocre at best you scrooge. Anyway it's Christmas today, and
I am fulfilling my annual tradition: Spending the entire day in airports and planes.
Except this year I actually have people traveling with me, so it looks
slightly less pathetic. Anyway this year I met my family up in Beaver
Creek Colorado for one of our favorite white-person traditions: skiing.
As you probably don't know because why the hell would you, I haven't been
skiing in about four or five years (rough estimate as my memory is essential
that of a senile 90 yr old). Since then I've been snowboarding once, but
that's it. I figured it'd be pretty easy to get my ski legs back because
I've been skiing a lot over my lifetime. I was very wrong. It turns
out I am significantly worse at skiing than I was a couple years
ago. For those of you following me on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, or just generally following me around in person, you've probably seen
the picture I posted showing that I hit 52.8 mph on skis and would say,
"Well you seem pretty good..." False. This is simply a
misrepresentation of information. While you might see that statistic as
showing my confidence and control at high speeds on the mountain, what it
actually means is that I am an utter pansy who's too afraid to turn, and
instead simply closes his eyes and waits until he comes to a stop via the run
ending, hitting a tree, etc. Zero skill involved. Of course, as
soon as I successfully maneuver my way down two or three runs I immediately
assume I'm qualified to hit the Winter X Games runs and professional crap.
And you know what assuming does. It kills you. Or at least
severely injures you. As is what happened when I decided to go into the
terrain park and mess around while waiting for Salomon and Rossignol to bring
the contracts. Terrible, TERRIBLE decision in retrospect.
The first run down I nailed it. (Possibly due to the
fact that I slowly cruised down the side of the run, not touching a single
feature.) The second run.....well, it escalated quickly. With
completely unearned confidence flowing from every pore, I got off the lift,
turned into the park, and bee-lined for the closest jump. A jump that was
far bigger than ANYTHING I'm qualified to hit. I don't want to say I was
ungraceful whilst in the air, but a fellow skier may have compared me to
a set of broken windshield wipers. I landed, way off from where I was
supposed to, but I landed nonetheless, and in my absurdly irrational state of
mind I took that as a good sign and thus continued on towards the rails and boxes.
With a head full of wrong decisions, I made for the second rail down,
again moving way too fast. I hit the little entrance jump thingy
(scientific term), went into the air, hit the rail WAY too hard, immediately
shooting my skis out from under me and absorbing the brunt of the fall with the
my head. I was pretty stunned and may have lost awareness for a minute or
so, but I didn't cry, despite what Mr. Biggie Fries Skier says. Who cares
what he thinks anyway. It freaking hurt. Go back to doing you
Double-Triple McFlurries you jerk. Long story short I think I'm just
gonna stick to sledding from here on out.
You know that WOPWOPWOPWOP sound
when only one person rolls down their window in the car? Firstly, fuck
that guy. Second off, can you imagine how bad it would be if you could
roll down airplane windows? Assuming of course we didn't all immediately
die from lack of oxygen.
Speaking of traveling, this is
the first time I've been on a plane since August, which is a pretty long time
for me, and I'm kind of getting nostalgic. Nothing feels like home like a
warm scripted greeting, a homey instructional video, and a nice prepackaged
serving of pretzels. Of course one of my favorite parts of flying, as
I've said before, is texting at least twenty people then immediately turning
off my phone for the flight, that way when you turn it on after landing (make
sure it's on loud), you sit there helplessly while being continually notified
of your unimaginable popularity. Hey 4B, do you hear that? That's
the sound of me having friends. Yea, go back to your Sudoku you pathetic
friendless loser. (4B was a jerk anyway.) Anyway, the one thing I've never been able to do is sleep on
an airplane. Up until a few days ago I thought that was a curse. I
would've given anything to be able to sit down and immediately go unconscious
instead of dealing with the tiny little Hitler behind me screaming for two and
a half hours because it's too much of an idiot to know how to pop his ears.
What I found out last Friday, however, is that for me, not being able to
sleep is a blessing from GOD. Is it an exhausting and frustrating
blessing? Absolutely yes. But it is a blessing nonetheless.
Why, you ask? Because God have mercy on the person sitting next to
me when I wake up in a total panic from a dream. As you may be able to
guess, my imagination is slightly.... well, insane. On the way to Denver
I had the kind of dream that Stephen King would go to a therapist over. M
Night Shambangala cries about this kind of stuff. Of course I can't remember every detail, but you know the
feeling when you wake up and even though you don't really know what happened,
you still have this gut feeling that something has gone horribly wrong inside
your head? Like a little bit of your soul was just deep-fried and eaten by
a demon? Yea, that. Basically the last thing I remember is sitting
in an abandoned DMV being attacked by what I can only describe as a fear
monster with insanity scales chewing on me with teeth made of secrets.
Yea, you try being in that situation and not waking up flailing
every limb outwards and screaming for Jesus. Lady, I'm sorry about your
new jacket and for the loss of your ginger ale, but I was in a very dark place.
If it matters that much, your next Schweppes is on me.
Let's move on to something a
little less life-ruining. Two days I found out I got into another
college, and I'll be moving to Phoenix. Huzzah! I've got the major
details covered, like what I'm eating for lunch when I get home (Zaxby's) and
my first couple stops on the drive to Arizona (also Zaxby's). It's the
smaller details I've got to worry about now, such as where I'm staying during
the four day drive, where I'm going to live once I get there, how I'm going to
afford the gas, getting student loans to actually pay for college, and
registering for class. So far I've got literally none of those things
figured out. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if any of you people
live in between Columbia, SC and Phoenix, AZ and aren't going to murder me and
wear my skin, hit me up if you've got an extra bed/couch/closet space.
I'm not picky and I'm pretty low maintenance. Please have bacon available.
Fact of the Day: Astronauts have a small piece of Velcro
inside their helmets so they can scratch their nose.
Shout out to Emily Moore.
