“You’re going to Montserrat? Isn’t that blowing it’s top right now?” (re: Volcano) This is the last thing you want to hear from American Airholes right before you board a plane for a highly anticipated island vacation. It’s akin to asking someone if it’s hurricane season where they are going. “Yes, it is. I’m an asshole who loves thunderstorms.” I’m already having trip anxiety. What will I forget to pack? Who will I forget to tell? What if I miss my flight? Why can’t I get upgraded? Blah Blah white girl problems. This time tomorrow I’ll be well on my way into my fifth faux-jito proving I’m a complete non alcoholic. I always want to be one of those people that just throws a few items in a bag and off I go but I’m not. My cosmetics case is usually heavier than my clothing bag and my clothing bag usually contains nothing I enjoy wearing and I’m forced to wear the same sweaty t shirt over and over again. I also tend to overpack the wrong things. I won’t be surprised if I find a tutu and a pair of sparkly louboutins in my luggage when I arrive on the island. You never know. Maybe there’s a volcano dance happening and I wouldn’t want to be underdressed for a lava celebration. I have written the appropriate note to the dog sitter – aka – a novel of insanity. If anyone other than my dog sitter reads this note it will be proof that I need to be supervised at all times. It’s three pages long and says things like “Tulip likes to sleep at the end of the bed but needs her squirrel toy under her head.” And I wonder why I’m single. I’ve done the appropriate pre tanning at Bulb Beach aka the tanning bed. There is something very cancery feeling about lying under a bed of bulbs but it’s truly the only way to stop from burning while on vacation. I have downloaded six books. Uploaded three movies. And will offload my brain for a total of five days. So – until July – see ya fuckers!