I am not allowed to check my bags for another hour. There's this rule that you can't check bags any earlier than four hours before your plane leaves. I'm getting real acquainted with airports these days.
My stomach is subject to harsh pings and pangs, and every now and then I get the rise of a panic attack, but they are pretty much slight, and they happen almost every day now. My skin has been roasted into the pattern of a bathing suit. I love that I fell for sunburn the day I decided to wear a one-piece with cutouts on each side of my waist. C'est ma vie.
This weekend was an amalgamation of a shitload of sand, Bigfoot's Dingleberries and Thumbhead and a re-defined 'Lonely Island' and other strange inside jokes, many NFL conversations, a steady stream of alcohol coursing my body, an intense prolonged viewing of The Room, wearing Prada shoes every night, convertibles, boats, meeting more people than my memory can handle, and lizards. It was interesting. I attempted Twittering every possible event that occurred in desperate hopes that it would become a real-time diary so I wouldn't forget anything. But even that fell by the wayside and I never even pretended that I would remember (or care) at a later time to Blog about it. I hate Miami. I hate Florida. But the weekend was a blast in drunken laughter (I couldn't stop silent-cry-laughing at brunch one morning) that will always be priceless. The fireworks were shitty but we commanded our own celebration by hanging out on a blanket in the middle of a standing crowd and downing all the wine and beer we got our hands on. It might be time to detox.
I picked up a pack of Parliaments out of the cigarette machine of some divey frat scene (you have to see it to understand) and inhaled three sticks before I got back to the crowd. That was the first night. I never touched them again, mainly because no one else I hung out with after that smoked, but they're in my bag with seven left. There are plenty of pictures. It might be time to detox.
The hardest thing about this weekend is trying to escape from a breakup and realizing it won't go away. Even as I type this my throat is closing up and I feel like I have to shit and throw up everywhere. Prepared for it or not, it hurts. It sucks. You have to just keep getting stronger and not fuck it up and keep trying to believe people when they say "it's for the best". But they don't know that. I don't know that. They're probably right. But that's what you have to keep telling yourself because you don't know unless you feel it all. So here I go, back to Chicago, with an empty heart but full hopes and determination on finding happiness and even better music. So many good stories from this weekend will keep conversations on the upswing. I will work harder. I will book a real vacation. I will pay more money toward that which needs to be paid so I can move.
This fakation has not changed my life. It hasn't even changed my mind. About anything. But I do think it was another weekend where I got stronger and I might even make a pie this week....lots of berries. Not the dingleberry kind.
