I am not a planner. My mom, now, she’s the planner. She can whip together a land war on Asia using only Post-its and graph paper. I did not, I’d like to note, inherit this skill.
Which is why I’ve been rather ill for the past few days. My default reaction to stress is not, as many who know me and my family would imagine, to hit the bottle. It is not to snap at people. It is not to sleep too much.
No, I vomit. Pretty sexy, eh?
I mean, it’s not planning, but a skill’s a skill. We’re in a recession, people. Use what you’ve got to get what you need.
Why am I vomiting? Well, it’s simple: I’m getting what I want. Who doesn’t vomit at that?
What I want is a trip across Florida for me to re-create an antiquated tour book written by two amazing people: Stetson Kennedy and Zora Neale Hurston. Since I’m writing a column about this week, I’ll spare you – for now – the details. You’ll have to read it Thursday anyway, bitches. So there.
Wait, where was I?
Oh, right. Writing and vomiting. I’m working on my thesis and I’m recreating these awesome Florida driving tours (I’m such a Florida geek. I would say, as my friend Theresa says all the time, that I’m “gay for Florida” but most of you don’t know me and don’t understand that I think that’s a good thing and not a slur and would call for me to be burned in effigy and you know I don’t look good in flames, so we’re gonna go with “Florida geek”) from 1937. El Cap and I are taking his parents RoadTrek across the state. Of course, this involves packing and studying and… well, planning. Not just for what underwear I’ll need, but where, exactly, we’re going to go. And what if we don’t get there? What if I make these reservations and we get a flat tire or I find something interesting and instead of ending up at Grayton Beach we never leave Cedar Key? And what if we run out of, well, anything?
You get my point. Commitment makes me nervous. And planning three weeks of places to stay makes me itchy. And, as we mentioned, vomity.
Is TOO a word.
And, no, there isn’t a point to this except that I promised myself I’d start posting more, and this is today’s post. Tomorrow I’m on deadline for the Gabber and finishing my column that I swore a few paragraphs ago you would all have to read, so this post is a pre-emptive strike for the week.
Consider yourselves struck. You’re just lucky you’re not covered in vomit.
