We are going to Japan on Friday.
Jesus with a gypsy in a gymnasium in Jamaica.
We've been researching all weekend. Glued to the old Lonely Planet, wondering which bullet train we will take to which sushi we shall eat that doesn't involve things like sea cucumbers and weird marine-bound animals that doesn't resemble fish.
I have about 8000 different things to do before we go, and to be fair, work-wise it's a terrible terrible time to go. Shit always kicks off in September, and it's nearing end of quarter, so cocks are on the block. Reading for a-chopping.
But it's also my birthday, which I'm fucking dreading like I've never dreaded a birthday before, so to run away and absorb myself in some randomly exotic country with my Brit is definitely favourable to spending it in a pub crying into a bottle of gin and wondering how I got to 32 without 1) dying 2) married and unchilded and 3) probably most importantly, how the fuck am I going to deal with actually being 32.
It's a crisis in the making, and I'm choosing to deal with it in Japan.
Like most sensible women ought to.
With a strapping man by my side to wipe my tears away and apply serum to my wrinkles.
Dear God.
Will drink 8000 cups of green tea there a day to try and combat age, and therein, doom.
Help.
0 comments:
Post a Comment