Just got back from a kick-ass hiking trip to the Adirondack Mountains in New York state.
Very few people. Lots of wilderness. And no fucking skyscrapers.
But that's not what I want to talk about right now.
Vacations are peculiar animals. You start out all giddy and excited and, as the week springs along, you start to get this feeling of dread. Then Sunday comes along and you start to feel like total shit. You realize, eventually, that you have to leave this fake façade you've created for yourself - by the beach, in the mountains, on a lake, etc. – and return to the concrete jungle to work for the man. Hey, someone's got to pay for your new I-tunes phone and it's not going to be me.
And, of course, when you go back to work, you have to tell the same fucking vacation stories over and over again to every single person in your office.
OFFICE WORKER: Soooooooo how was your trip? Tell me all the details.
YOU: Well, it was pretty cool, we…
OFFICE WORKER: Mmm Hmm. Mmm Hmm. Oh look someone brought donuts! Save me a custard one!
And, by that time, it becomes a faded memory. Back to fucking reality. Sigh.
At least I can look on the bright side - I got to bang a bear on my trip [see picture above].
Oh yeah. I almost forgot. I killed someone too.