I’m back from the holiday. Back to real life. Work begins as soon as tomorrow so I’m going to stay up really late. Screw you, working self. It will be worth the drowsy and weak first day back if I can just hold on a little longer.
So, I pinned all my hopes and needs on this short holiday. It was pure escapism and I completely ignored the possibility of time continuing after it was over. I’m always sure I’m going to die in a plane crash anyway, so being back at home and back at work didn’t seem like a real possibility. If I didn’t have such terrible credit I would probably take out a huge loan before any flight, and spend it all in an insane ritual to ward off death. (Murphy’s law says that if I have money saved, I’ll die in a crash, and never get to spend it. If I haven’t a penny to my name, I’ll live to have to deal with the consequences. This is my worldview, don’t argue with it) Thankfully I don’t have credit, so I just have to content myself with spending all my available cash on luxury makeup in airports. At least if my ritual fails I’ll leave behind a good looking corpse…
Phew…I’m tired. It was a wonderful trip and I did what I needed to do, I suppose, clear my head and what not.. but now the wasted hours are crashing in on themselves and all the excess has to be paid for. I’ve cleared my head all right, and I’m back home, with my clutter and all the clothes and things I had no need for when I was away. I want to sweep everything up and throw it all away, all the things I didn’t miss. But then I spot a pair of shoes I might have worn once, or a bag that might have come in useful. Or a jar of spices I could have added when I cooked for my friends. My hairdryer which is better than the one I used.
I wouldn’t be able to part with anything. There’s a huge comfort in arriving home after being away, but it comes with the weight of everything I was fine living without. Needs and personal tastes arrange themselves in my background and I know I won’t feel that free again and until my next holiday. Which, of course, I am already counting down to.
I’m getting glum. There’s no need for that. I had fun. I saw people who make me laugh and make me cry and I got drunk and I kissed strangers and I threw up and I watched tv and I ate expensive food and drank cheap wine and slept in my clothes. It was great. I’m just back now, with my electric whisk, my laptop, my spare coat and my comfy bed and all the socks I could ever wear.
I’m going to write something… I was going to write something. I was honestly going to relate something positive about my time away from it all, but I wanted a shower and the boiler has been off so I can’t have hot water for another 2 hours. Then I was hungry, and the fridge is empty but for a very black avocado that shows how optimistic I was about everything before leaving for my holiday. I was so fucking excited that I actually thought an (already ripe) avocado would last 2 weeks.
I’m starting to feel angry at my pre holiday self. Smug bitch. Then I feel good because I realise that smug bitch will have the stupid grin wiped off her face soon when she has to come back here to the cold house and the lack of food and I better stop typing now before I become full on psychotic, taking pleasure in the knowledge that my over excited past self will one day be as sad as present me… which is me. Oh dear.