Sonofab*tch. It's time to pack.
I know that sounds harsh, but if you know me well then you know there's nothing I despise more than packing. Packing to move, packing for a trip--whatever. If I die and end up in Hell (and let's face it, the odds look good) there is a 95% chance* that my own personal underworld will consist of racing around trying to find objects I might need and cramming said objects into boxes and suitcases that are too small before Satan dumps everything out and makes me start over again. For all eternity.
How am I supposed to know what I'll want on the other side of the world? Even just the clothing part is killing me--especially when you consider the completely ridiculous and impractical nature of most of my clothing. Pathetically, all week I have wrestled with the idea that my red eel-skin clutch needs to come with me (I still haven't decided). Or that I may, in fact, finally figure out how wear a vintage crocheted skirt (it did not make the cut). Or that gold sequined heels may be handy (yes, those made it in). I've considered that were I to amputate a leg, I'd have twice as much room for shoes--and even for pants once I cut off half the pantlegs and replaced them with stump-pockets. And priority boarding on the plane? Something to think about.
Also difficult to leave behind are some of my books. I mean, I know I don't need them at all, but how do I leave behind all the F. Scott Fitzgerald? Douglas Coupland? Chuck Palahniuk? Jim Davis' Garfield: Bigger Than Life? (Can Jon hear Garfield? If so, why does Garfield talk in thought bubbles? And if not, why does he talk to him so much? What is going on there?)
And then there's the plane to consider. It's a day and a half of travel so I'll need to pack some snacks in my carry on. And I'll need entertainment: I'll have a laptop, Jonathan Dimbleby's Russia, and the new book by Britney Spears' mother (yeah, no shame-I'm totally gonna purchase, read, and enjoy that). Also, I'm going to pack a snakebite kit, because if Samuel L. Jackson has taught me anything** there may be "Motherf*cking snakes on (my) motherf*cking plane." Thank you, Mr L. Jackson. Thank you.
So, to sum up: Gold sequined heels, Lynne Spears' book, Rice Krispie treats, and a snakebite kit.
Oh, I am sooo ready for Russia.
*There is, in fact, a 5% chance that my Hell will consist of having to walk behind slow-walkers in the mall for all eternity with the Jonas Brothers playing over the PA.
**Samuel L. Jackson has taught me everything.
