It is super humorous to me how I begin each of my posts (as of late) like I’m a fucking Carrie Bradshaw. Like some mega corporation is paying me to write about my adventures, pretending it’s not just me putting out my own fucking “brand.” (God that’s ridiculous: brand.) Each of these posts I start off as professional as I can, as if my editors want pizazz and intrigue to hook my readers. Like I have any…
I get about two paragraphs in and I feel so inauthentic. I don’t like how I sound or how I will be perceived. Then I delete whatever bullshit I typed out and drop this bizarre facade I don and then write how I truly feel; how it exists in my head.
Maybe this is just my technique? I need to broom out the cobwebs before I can get to my real “shine.”
Despite my prior post “waking up panicked,” the cruise was fantastic. I made some very fast friends (who I lovingly referred to as my Homo Homies) the first night on the ship at the LGBTQ meet-up/mixer. They accompanied me on my misadventures and I on theirs. I did lose my shit in one of the ports because I had reached my limit in regards to noise and being bothered. What I learned is I am not a “Vacation Port Town” person. I wish I could be like my cruise companion Christian. He gave zero fucks. His casual existence was so refreshing. He just went with the flow. As much as I tried, I have a point of being “over” whatever we may have been in the midst of doing.
I told my brother when I got home that I was at least proud of myself for knowing this and removing myself before my new pals got to see the ugly side of me; the spoiled only child that WILL throw a fit when he’s had enough. I like to think that is growth. Unfortunately for those who have been permanently adopted into my inner circle, I do not offer that luxury. They get me at my ugliest. Sorry, gals.
I would absolutely do another solo cruise. It was fun being by myself. I didn’t have to worry about anyone else. Just me. My own fun. Not like I don’t already do that. I seem to surround myself with those who cater to my every whim. It’s weird. Without them I didn’t have the worry/anxiety that I get that they’re just agreeing with me because they don’t want to upset me or give me what I want. Y’know, to avoid seeing the side only they get the “pleasure” of witnessing?
My only real regret was not recognizing my “friendly personality.” I genuinely thought I wasn’t going to make any friends, so I signed up for my favorite writing competition. As a result… I ended up stressed about competing and completing my assignment. I shouldn’t have, but I can never say no to the chance of flexing my skills. I love writing. (Clearly… ) What I don’t love is that this wasn’t my best. It was done for the sake of “getting it done.” Which means that it didn’t get the attention it deserved. If I place in the Top 15 it’ll be a fucking miracle.
One of the port towns I want to go back to is Puerto Vallarta. I’d love to spend a week there in the “gayborhood.” However… with the way shit is going I might not be able to. God… I hate this fucking place.
Sometimes (like most people I’m sure) I hate myself. Honestly, it’s a revolving door of things I dislike but today it is “what past trauma has done to me.” When I was younger I used to be a very giving person. My parents taught me to give more than I received. What we did not anticipate is that people are selfish users. It’s funny now that we all learned a valuable lesson at different stages of our lives. Yet we responded the same way. We over-corrected and thus became suspicious of everyone.
My solo cruise is coming up at the end of this month and I grow ever more uneasy. It’s terrifying just thinking of traveling “internationally” alone. So many scenarios run through my head… Primarily around getting kidnapped. (Not like I’m that easy to snatch…) Other ones include getting lost or left behind by the cruise line. From these fears I’m starting to panic and think of people I could take with me as a safety net. I’m already paying for the second person anyway… I might as well. What stops me is that the WHOLE POINT is to do something by myself. Which I’ve never done before.
I can’t take my BF because he has to work and is saving his vacation time for our cruise in July. I don’t want to take my brother because I am so weirdly co-dependent that it would make things worse. Plus, sometimes I get the feeling that my BF thinks that I’m going to run off with him and leave him behind. (That’s his own childhood trauma talking though.) So, neither is a viable option.
One of the leading contenders (in my head) is this young guy I have coined as “black jack,” because he’s 21 years old. (I’m super clever, right?) His real name is Ryan but I have 2 others in my circle and so saving “seconds” from having to explain which one I’m referring to, I gave him a cutesy little name.
I have mentioned it to him in passing but… I started to get paranoid that this youngun was just befriending me to use me for this trip. Granted… I brought it up to him… and he hasn’t given me any cause to think that at all. It’s just my own intense past trauma.
In addition, I didn’t want my BF to think that I was replacing him or using this trip as a way of getting closer to Blackjack. That’s not even in the orbit of the sphere of possibility. I’m not like that. I can control my feelings from getting attached or fall for someone. What I don’t have the power to do is keep someone else from feeling a certain way. If I took him, would he “fall for me?” I don’t want to hurt someone and he’s so young that I absolutely would. That is, if they’re real emotions and not tied to what I can offer him: “stability.”
Past experience has made me so jaded. I’m leery of people who are just being my friend to get something from me. My husband and I were suckers… We had a roommate use us to pay for his fucking rent and cell phone. We did it because we thought he was our friend but he peaced the fuck out and didn’t bother to tell us he was done until we had wasted buckets of money.
This fear and my own fear of being alone have made me so paranoid and uneasy. This whole trip is meant to be fun, yet here I sit dreading the entire experience. (Watch… I’ll just sit in my room the whole time.)
The hubby and I have had many odd adventures throughout our nearly 20 years together. The weirder and more bizarre the better. They are the stories we tell when we’re drunk with friends or strangers. And I try and stick to the actual events as much as possible, because nothing is more disingenuous than fabricating details of a story to try and make it funny. It’s why I could never be a comedian. I can’t lie about details for the sake of a laugh.
I have this habit of putting a single song on repeat for hours, until the song holds little to no meaning for me. What I have discovered in my many TikToks is this is a habit of people with ADHD. Well, you pegged me again, you creepy app. Since last night I have been obsessed with a YouTube video of an unreleased Taylor Swift song. I don’t quite understand why this one didn’t make the cut for her album, it is truly phenomenal and I am OBSESSED. I’d post it here but I don’t want it to somehow get caught by the TSMachine and have them remove it. My queen should just release it! But she’s probably just waiting to do so with Lover Taylor’s Version. Sneaky gal.
Todays obsession reminded me of my first trip to London for my Honeymoon/Birthday. We dove head first into this trip without any careful planning. All we had on the agenda was our stay, a trip to Leavesden to experience the sets of Harry Potter (a different time kids), and we had purchased the “London Pass.” Nothing more. Which is kind of our M.O., honestly. I personally feel like that is the best way to travel because it always results in the weirdest stories. As in this one…
Charlie had asked “what are the most ‘English’ things you can do?” And the most obvious and desperately pathetic was to have “authentic” fish and chips. Of course we’ve had them here, but I thought maybe (just maybe) they were different in the land in which is originated. And… It did not disappoint.
The newly minted husband researched and found a place that was supposedly “the best fish and chips in London.” Obviously they had given themselves that name because… Dear god.
We grabbed a black cabby and made our way across town to a residential neighborhood to go to this hole in the wall restaurant. We walked in and the fry cook was listening to this sad, somber song at ear splitting levels. We made our order and then went and sat on the right side of the shop which I thought was this huge dining area. Oh no. It was this thin strip of space, with a counter attached to the wall with a full length mirror immediately above.
“This is going to be fun,” I had said, gesturing to my reflection. “I get to watch myself as I eat!”
“Eh, it’ll be fine.”
As we waited the sound level of the music was undeterred. At least it was an okay song. I have a tendency of getting easily irritated with music I do not like.
We got our fish and began eating. That’s when we became abundantly clear that the scales were still on the unbattered side of the fish.
“Oh my god,” I said, showing him the steely-gray side of my meal.
“Oh, that’s weird,” Charlie said, “Maybe that’s just… No. Mine too. Maybe that’s just how they do it.”
“Well, they’re doing it wrong.”
He chuckled, “Is that so? The place that originated-“
“Yes.”
As we picked it at our fish, trying to avoid the scales and the reflection of our grimaces in the mirror, it became abundantly clear that the song that had been playing when we walked in was on repeat. I started to laugh to myself as I concocted this elaborate story in my head how the fry cook was going through a recent break-up and just could not stop listening to this song.
I imagined the cashier reaching their limit and turning to him, “Oy, Trev, please play anything else. I beg of you!”
And Trevor would continue on, frying fish and singing along to the song. (Did I mention the fry cook had been singing along to the multiple repeats?)
The two of us couldn’t stand looking at ourselves eat this scaly fish any longer, while Trevor went through the motions, so we headed out onto the street and walked back to our hotel.
This is where I fell even more in love with the city. (Side note, it was guy fox day.) The gentle orange glow of the street lamps lit our way, as we passed by an old, old, old cemetery and a couple of boys who were kissing and hugging until they saw us coming their way. I wanted to say “Don’t worry, boys, this is my husband.”
Now that I have successfully bored you with my lackluster story, I will return to my repeated listen to “Need” by Taylor Swift. Please, excuse me.
My birthday was over a week ago, and even though nothing over the top occurred I still could not be bothered to write my post. Which is utterly stupid because I am falling way behind. At this point I need to write 10 to catch up and, ultimately, meet my goal. Can the bitch do it?
For my birthday I wanted to choose a song that didn’t particularly resonate with any memories, but instead was one that more or less represented me. But what is that track? I jokingly said (to myself) “Flag Pole Sitta” but… That is a song that represents two Joshes ago. Then I thought, maybe I’ll just choose a solid favorite, since it is my birthday, and then share some memorable birthdays throughout my life. But that wouldn’t have been very good. They lacked any real substance and would have just been snapshots. The real story is what had I felt in those moments? What was I thinking? For some I could recall but others, they were just mental images.
Instead I chose just one song that reminded me of my most memorable birthday. One that could not and will NEVER be topped. It’s impossible. Don’t even try.
I’m going to be honest, my birthdays are kind of shit. The problem is I build up these astronomical expectations for it to be something fantastic and ultimately it never happens. I blame Hollywood. I am near the point that I would rather it not even be celebrated at all, just to protect myself and (really) those around me. Every effort made in it is beautiful. And I am grateful, but I’m so fucked in the head that I think it should be something else and… I’m just an asshole. There is no other way to say it.
The one birthday that shall and will never be topped was in 2013.
After having been together for 10 years my husband finally agreed to follow through with our engagement and get married. I think he was hesitant because, while our life was good, we had been through rough waters many, many times before. Which one of these rapids, on the river of our relationship, was going to be so rough that it tosses one of us out of the boat?
Regardless of his fears, he agreed.
As a safety net to make sure he never forgot our anniversary, we decided to get married 3 days before my birthday.
This also happened in the same year that he had surprised me in March with my birthday present: a trip to London. Now our trip turned into a double-whammy. Birthday and honeymoon in one fell swoop.
It should be noted that I am an absolute anglophile. I love anything British, except the tories and the monarchy. Everything else is gold to me and has been since I was a kid. London has been the one place I have wanted to visit since I realized travel across oceans was possible.
The morning of our wedding at the LA courthouse there was an active shooter at LAX. Our hotel room was a suite just a block from the airport and we watched in real time as the cops went down the road, shutting everything down.
“Oh my god,” I said, “I hope this doesn’t delay our flight!”
The two of us got dressed up and headed to the courthouse. We were married and then back to the hotel, where we passively aggressively argued with each other about whether to wait at the hotel or walk to our terminal.
“The app doesn’t show that it has been cancelled,” I said, “And our gate is literally, right there.”
“Fine, fine, we’ll walk.”
We joined the stream of travelers heading, on foot, to the airport.
As it turned out, this was the right choice because we boarded our flight, on time, and made it to London.
I could not sleep on this 11 hour flight. I was wide awake. I was too excited to do it, even with a full Ambien.
We landed in the late afternoon, took the tube to our hotel next to the Gloucester Station and then tried our hardest not to go to sleep. My father-in-law had suggested this routine because it makes adjusting to the time change a little easier. And as the man had done MANY an international flight we took his advice. However, after not sleeping on the plane and the fact that it was dark by 5… Neither of us made it. We barely stayed awake at the restaurant we went to for dinner.
“Let’s just go to bed,” Charlie said.
This turned out to be one of the best decisions we made. Because we went to bed to early we both woke up at 5 a.m. As we were totally energized and didn’t want to waste our first real day in the room, we got dressed and decided to walk down Kensington Street.
In those silly questions people sometimes get asked, “What is the most memorable moment in your life,” this would be my answer.
In this enormous city, we were the only people on the road. It was absolutely silent and this fact astounded me. Granted, as I later learned, this is the more affluent part of London, which is why I was probably “taken” by it. We walked all the way from our hotel to Kensington Palace. The park was absolutely gorgeous in the sunrise light. The orange leaves seemed to catch fire in the suns rays.
It’s such a simple moment but for me it was… everything.
On my actual birthday we went to the “Experience Harry Potter” at Leavesden studios. We rode a double decker bus from the station to the lot. This was back when I was, also, a Potterphile. Y’know, before she doubled down on her transphobia. While I do still enjoy the products I have already paid for, I will not be doing so going forward. That’s the most political answer I can give. Those who have decided to trash their purchased items seems nonsensical. She already got that money. But to each their own.
Regardless, it was quite the treat. My husband wasn’t as happy with the experience. He had read so many reviews beforehand that he ruined it for himself.
We went back to our room afterwards and took a nap.
For the following week we had no solid plans. It was whatever we felt like doing in the moment. And seeing as how we had purchased the London Pass for our trip, they gave us a big book of things to do. And every day we were there we did something new. Even if we had allocated an entire month we wouldn’t have tapped the surface of the shit to do in the city.
For it being London it didn’t rain very much. It was certainly cloudy often, which is my favorite kind of weather.
Near the end of or trip, we were running out of things to do so, being the rock hound I am, we took a trip to a Chalk mine. It was billed as this spooky ghostly kind of tour but as it turned out the terror in the trip was the elbaorate maze of tunnels and the five foot tour guide with his coke bottle glasses.
“We’re being led by Mr. Magoo,” my husband said.
“We’re going to die down here.” I whispered back.
We went on this tour with one other couple, which is true to form. Most of the tours my husband and I have ever done it usually is just us. One time on the Queen Mary the tour guide acted as though we were part of a large group the entire time. “Does he see more people here than just us?” I had whispered to Charlie.
In the chalk mine we learned that the only historical significance was that it was a hideaway for families escaping the blitz during WWII. Otherwise all of the creepy tales were mostly fabricated, much to the disappointment of the other couple. They had watched a ghost program the other night and wanted to see it for themselves.
There was one moment where this small man abandoned us around the bend, extinguished his kerosene lantern, and then banged a loud metal drum. He walked back up to us, in pitch black, talking and all I could think about at the time was the hobbit. “Riddles in the dark.”
The reason I chose the song above is because it was playing everywhere we went. That is no exaggeration. At the time I was not really a fan of this song, so it stuck-the-fuck-out. By the end of the trip, I thought it’d be easier to join them and I fell in love with it. Now whenever I hear it that entire trip comes flooding back to me.
The Journal of a Jaded Josh 