It’s been pouring all week in New York, and even though I simply got again from visiting my own family in the wasteland, I feel ready to get out of the metropolis again. Clouds? Rain? HUMIDITY? No, thank you. But vacations can be puffed up on this economy. They say the satisfactory part about taking days off from paintings and traveling is the act of planning your escape, as you diligently bring together your Google Docs and relish in anticipation of skipping city. Anyone who has been on vacation can attest to this:

Shit constantly is going incorrect. The worst excursion reviews display you a facet of the region you’re traveling which you by no means desired to see: I as soon as we’re given my passport stolen in Paris on a Friday night—meaning I had to wait till the following Monday for the U.S. Embassy to open. I slept on a chum of a chum’s cot in her university dorm room.

In the stop, I also needed to visit the British consulate to gather any other visa to move again to Glasgow where I become reading overseas, after which cried in a cybercafe even as G-chatting my application coordinator once I couldn’t acquire said visa. She emailed me a letter to reveal at the airport (?), but the actual nightmare turned into when I nearly didn’t make it to the airport in any respect. Instead of educating, a single shuttle bus arrived slightly; it crammed right away up, and I swear people had been RIOTING to get on. A satisfactory Turkish couple pulled me into their cab, and in the end, I turned on my way.

It became the day Obama was given re-elected, so this story has a happy ending. They often do—however I’m interested in the time that shit hit the fan with such depth, you thought, “There’s no viable manner this may get any worse.” In truth, I want to recognize the way things did worsen and how that left you with an almost ill appreciation for the universe. Hopefully, you’ve felt that way before, so I can recognize I’m now not alone. Speaking of, I felt a cosmic connection to many of the remaining week’s entries. How did we all have such a lot of terrible haircuts? Here are your first-rate tales:

During the summertime between 7th and 8th grade, I decided I would begin calling everybody at faculty “hon.” I don’t realize why. I’m not Southern. I can’t find the existence of explaining how I came up with “hon,” however, I assume I just desired to be acknowledged around campus for having an “element.” And my “component” might be called human beings, “hon.

Anyway, after the primary week of the college yr, one of the famous ladies approached me at some stage in PE, advised me that I needed to reduce the “hon” shit out because her friend’s concept becomes silly, and I become annoying anybody. Frankly, I don’t blame her for calling me out, and I turned into likely such an exceedingly obnoxious 13 12 months antique. But, ah, itsnotaboutthepasta, about the antique, “I’ll just inform each person I have an exclusive name now,” never receive antique:

The summer season before 8th grade, I was given a TERRIBLE (and I mean horrible) pixie reduce. I had no idea that my face could not deliver this haircut and spent the subsequent yr shamefacedly growing it out with metric tons of hairspray and a million headbands. It did, but reset my hair type – from lanky-greasy puberty hair to something a great deal greater attainable.

Then I moved to an exceptional nation for ninth grade and started out introducing myself with a completely distinctive name until my mom inadvertently busted up the complete scheme via taking walks up to me while I turned into standing with my new buddies and calling me using my real call. My buddies teased me approximately it for some time; however, thankfully, it becomes high faculty. All and sundry determined something else to gossip over and forgot approximately my weird intro after about two months.

Yeah. I was down because no one signed my yearbook at the final day of faculty, so – while our neighbour loaned my circle of relatives his seashore house for the summer season – I decided to now not p.C. Anything (not even my Gore Vidal books). So when we were given to the seaside town, my mother took me shopping, and I did kind of a grunge-y seashore bum type of look and commenced striking out with a few cool older kids, but then my jerk-ass older brother ruined it through displaying them my yearbook. So it all labored out ultimately, even though my new friends taught me to like myself for who I am and not attempt to be someone I’m now not.