How would you explain a day completely spent in transit in a sexy, alluring way? Maybe slap a skirt on it and call it Sally. Maybe lie like when your girl asks why you smell like Marc Jacobs perfume when you with the boys all night. Maybe recount tumultuous visions in the past from drug-induced slumbers. I think I’ll side with our latter option.
Before I launch into an explanation of a messed-up, psyche that would excite Freud so much that he would be claiming that those are “just the pleats” in his trousers, I’ll tell you of our day. We flew from Madagascar to Cape Town. In a weird way, being in a nation with English as the predominate language and all first world luxuries is bittersweet, but it’s a lot easier to miss a third world country from your five star hotel.
During our connection in Johannesburg, we were greeted off the tarmac by a nice young man named “Jeffry.” He brought us to the passport control line, where we waited, and he handed Christian a ringing cell phone. Apparently this was the “President of Africa,” calling to tell him how big of a fan she is. Don’t ask. Our boi J then asked us if we’d like to skip the queue. What do we look like? Your auxiliary friends whose lives are only seeing you then waiting for you to come back? We hopped to the front of that line. We re-checked our baggage, but J wasn’t done with his tricks. This little playa took us around security, through a side entrance, dap up some of his boys, and we were in. It was like we were wealthy ladies with lumbar lodiolus (sp.) on the Titanic, if you catch my drift.
So, in other news, our malaria pills are almost guaranteed to give you some messed up dreams. Coupled with popping Listerine strips like my ex girlfriend at Bonneroo, we have some psychedelic dreams. It’s almost like we go to sleep in a weird environment just to experience another entire day in a weirder environment. My personal ad nochtum (made that up) highlight has been walking up to the pool for a party for my high school class after 4 years. I approached my friend and her family, but her mom was Hillary Clinton, which I found very normal. I shook her dad’s hand, went in for the hug with my 1st place loser, Hill, and she shoved me into a bush of thorns. Apparently, I had offended her and she started to cry. Then, right before my sweet, majestic-blue eyes, a crying former Secretary of State transformed into a small child, and we were transplanted to a library in New York. The scariest part was being in a library. I have those up when I found this thing called “girls.”
With memories of our jungle adventure and dreams of having new content to write about tomorrow,
Hans “Hillary hit me harder than that truck,” Christian “Yes of course we want to skip this line,” and Josef “I’m ordering the ribs because I deserve them” Braunfisch