Thoughts on Flight Take 2

Another trip to Montpellier, 2 hour flights have become as commonplace as masterbation and I’m tired. My carry-on BRICS suitcase’s has failed to make it one year without the handle mechanism malfunctioning. There a few unknown stains that could be anything, and I cringe at the thought of security rubbing the contaminate swab over the top of it. Im sure there is nothing too explosive, i mean if its gone up my nose I doubt it can blow up an aircraft…you never know. 

Im staring down the barrel of this weak pessimistically optimistic. Excited to learn and develop new products to foster revenue, pessimistically unsure that any of the tech team enjoys my presence. In my 1st year here i have made about 20 people dislike me that I know of, and could give less of a fuck about what toilet paper is in the woman stalls. Ive realised that most of the time I’m an optimistic pessimist. Im excited to go on a date, but concerned about how her pussy may feel in bed or my the portentous gesture of whiskey dick. Im optimistic about my career but blindingly aware of its finite nature and  could end up handing out CV’s like Tmeout magazine on Tuesday morning. 

I’d like to blame 30 years as the main culprit; an amorphous one-third life crises  with a mind binge on ego driven compliments…but I have been feeling this way for a while. 30 just brings a couple antiquated high fives and glances to see how many grey hairs are sprouting on my thankfully thick bed of hair. I don’t pretend that my anxiety is genetic. No one in my family really behaves as I do. Its just a series of habits that have formed over the years causing me to be 60% neurotic, 20% smart, 10% crazy, and a smattering of other things. Im good at what I do but could be better. Im good at drinking but could drink less. Im bad at football so I don’t play. Its all all choice.

So as the land comes into focus in the 6x12 frame window if this budget airline flight - Im optimistically cautious about the next few days and those that follow. In one light i feel the most alive that I have felt in 5 years. But, on the contrary theres a craving for a benzedrine, xanax, bottle of wine and a room corner. Theres an urge to buy a guitar and get back to the music. Theres an lingering infatuation with the written word and the longing to be more like Mailer, more stoic and poised like Turgenev. So the fingers tap away and the google searches commence for an overpriced 6-string that Ill play worse than an 8 year old Justin Bieber. Thats okay though. Im optimistically excited to be free, play music, write, fuck drink, smoke and breath. However I’m pessimistically bound to the fear of solemnity and its transformation on my character and grip against sound sleep.