So before I board yet another plane tomorrow for my long trip home to DC, we are going to just quickly discuss a few things. This post is actually kind of a filler because it’s taking me longer than I thought to write my C&B tribute, which will have to go up tomorrow.
So. Today’s items.
1. I haven’t been back to DC since I packed up the house and took off for Germany. I am SO.EXCITED.TO.GO.HOME!! Because really, DC, like New England, is home for us. Home filled with a lot of firsts and our home away from home family of friends that kept us busy and happy and content for the better part of a decade. And I will see them all tomorrow night! Woooo. I can’t wait. Who.needs.sleep.
2. That being said, Mr. H didn’t pick seats when he bought the flights. OVERAMONTHAGO. First of all, who doesn’t pick SEATS? And I am going to smash something if I don’t get a window seat, which currently I don’t have. I feel like he’s done this to me on purpose. I’m so angry about it, in fact, that I have drawn my own picture of where we’re stuck sitting. The online version was not going to do.
I promise you. Click this link to see my plane drawing and you will TOTALLY be behind me on this one.
3. If I get fucking arrested or detained or strip searched from here to Munich to Washington, DC, tomorrow, I am going to light something on fire. Or flip something in the airport. Or assault someone. I will be walking into this little trip with not a drop of the vino in me, well rested, liquids in appropriate packing materials, and I will do everyone a favor and pack pants so that they believed I was off for a wedding weekend, not some drug mule expeditition. No pants in bag=obvious sketchy visit, or so says airport security, remember. Which reminds me that I wanted to look into what actual drug mules pack in their bags, besides secret cash and OBVIOUSLY drugs, hidden in those secret compartments they make in their suitcases or inside their tummys. But I have no time to do that. HOWEVER. IF I GET FUCKING DETAINED, the only good thing about it will be that I can ask the strip searchers to show me a smuggler’s suitcase, just so I am in the know.
So if you want to track my travels tomorrow, you can find me on Facebook and The Twitter. I’m hoping you end up being bored because that means I simply got on a few planes and slept the whole time. *here’s to HOPING.
4. Discussion I had with my sister this week, which brings me back to the obvious: I want to screw the hell out of Rob Pattinson.
Like the type of sexy time that when you are just aimlessly doing work and shit the next day, you have these insane flashbacks to the night before that make you blush. Like, oh dear God, I did that trick? And he did what again? Oh dear Christ I am getting rapey over this right now.
So anyway. Conversation went like this.
Her: Have you not listened to Rob Pattinson’s songs on youtube yet?
Me: Shit, I have not. I meant to, but I forgot. I will get to it tonight.
Her: I don’t know why you’re wasting time. I want to eat him. And in one he’s playing the guitar. (she sighs)
Me: Oh dear Christ, he plays the guitar. Wait, wait. Is he singing in his American voice or his British voice? This is very important.
Her: I don’t know what that means. He’s British, Heather.
Me: Don’t fuck with me on this one. British or American? You know he acts with that American accent. BRITISH OR AMERICAN? IS IT HIS BRITISH VOICE?
I am shrieking now and the excitement is making me hop up and down in my seat. Rob Pattinson, singing, playing the guitar, hopefully with that look of angst and that messy, messy, head of hair of his, WITH HIS BRITISH ACCENT, was going to make me more than losemyshit. I was about to have a public incident with myself.
Her: Ugh. Did you see that video of him and his whore girlfriend? She is a fucking weirdo. And sometimes I think he’s weird when he’s with her. I hope he’s not fucking weird.
Me: No. I didn’t. Are we still talking about this? I only have ten minutes. I have a few other topics to squeeze in here.
Her: I want to marry him.
Me: Do you think you’d cancel your own wedding if he’d marry you?
Her: (dead serious) Well, if it were like a, we’ll always be together type thing. Wait. I’m not telling you any more of this. You’re going to write about it.
Me: Right. Obviously I am. But you would marry him is the point?
Her: Yeah, make sure you note that. And don’t fucking plagiarize me.
Me: What? I’m going to quote you as wanting to marry him and me wanting to just screw him. Plagiarize would mean I steal your shit. Nevermind.
And now I am back to staring at pictures of his yummy face and swooning around like a 12 year old. Yes, I used swooning around like a verb.
My pants have no chance against Rob Pattinson. None. And so here he is, for all my other dramatic, boy crazy friends. You’re welcome.
**Disclaimer: Just because I’m over 30 does not mean I cannot want to lick, violate and conquer boys around the age of 20-ish that are pretty. I stand firm in my right to want to do so. That is all.