Making Life More Palatable

 

This tastes like disappointment...

This tastes like disappointment…

Who has the best cheesesteak in Philly, Pat’s or Geno’s? Geno’s or Pat’s?

 

Neither, they both SUCK!

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Take a Link

 

 

 

This gets my heart racing...

This gets my heart racing…

Check out this great link from GoSeeWrite.

 

After traveling for a period of time — I think somewhere within the 3-4 week period — you begin to feel as though you don’t have an address.  You don’t have a home.  You don’t have a life except for the one you are going to live that day.  Your heart beats in almost a different rhythm.  One beat scaring the shit out of you, the subsequent beat exhilarating your heart at the prospect of your next step.

 

It’s a good read with some great pictures.

Make a Fucking List and Check it Fucking Twice Part 3

This is what my flat looked like with 2 hours of sleep...

This is what my flat looked like with 2 hours of sleep…

 

 

Dear STILL Sleepless in Barcelona,

 

This has been the longest most surreal evening of my time on Earth and I’ve spent a night in jail before.  Los Angeles to London  to inside a wine bottle in Barcelona.  Don’t get me wrong, most of my nights end up sleepless, inside a wine bottle, the only difference now is where I’m sleepless.

 

With less than two hours of sleep under my belt and only time and brain cells to kill, I proceed to transform my wine into a memory and my memories into skid marks inside the soiled underwear that is my brain.  Part of me wants to turn the place into a scene from Trainspotting or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but I didn’t want to be ‘That Guy.’  When I’m depressed, especially over a break-up, it’s easy for me to want to make my surroundings look like how I feel inside.  Not sure if that makes any sense, but it does for me.  However, this moment.  In this city.  In this situation.  I refuse.  I actually clean up and organize, putting my clothes into the closet, and my toiletries into the the bathroom.

 

I have no clue who this guy is right now.  It’s almost as if I’ve matured, but that can’t be it.  I’m 32 years old.  Guys don’t mature til…I have no clue when.

 

It’s now five o’clock in the morning and the wine fueling me earlier has waned and am now running solely on adrenaline and fear. The adrenaline will ultimately fade as well, but the fear and panic, as they always have been, will stand guard behind my eyes inside my head. That’s probably why I don’t sleep much. It really is. It doesn’t matter if I’m awake or asleep, I always have those two feelings as centurions, stoically smiting positive thoughts and self-worth like the first born of Bethlehem. (That’s how the story goes, right? I’m not really into Sci-Fi so I don’t know much about The Bible…Just kidding. We all know The Bible is considered Fantasy.)

 

My plan is set and my mind made up. Depending on how much things cost and how much money I have, I’m going to get a pre-paid ‘burner’ cellphone, so I can call my bank in order to reactivate my debit card. From there I’ll go to the Apple store to purchase a charger for my laptop. It’s so simple.

 

What could go wrong?

 

 

The only question now is what time to begin my coronation down the streets of Barcelona. What time would be best for the Catalan people to witness their foreign born son return in his signature red Vans. 7 AM?

 

After further thought and consideration, no stores or shops will be open until at least 10 o’clock let alone seven in the morning. Hmmm….well what the fuck do I do now?

 

I think this is becoming a theme.

 

Let you know how it works out.

 

 

 

Best,

 

 

 

Rick Scott

Make a Fucking List and Check it Fucking Twice, Part 2

Now you see it.  Now you don't.

Now you see it. Now you don’t.

 

 

Dear Sleepless in Barcelona,

 

 

So after getting the wine, I tell Adam I’m tired, I’m not at all, and bee line for the ATM I saw on the walk over. It’s do or die at this point. I can feel sweat start to bead up behind my knees. When sweat rolls down your calf, things are not going well for you. If I wasn’t so constipated I’d be scared shitless. I come to the conclusion either 100% of the credit card readers in Spain are faulty and broken, or in the time it took me to get from the airport to my apartment, Union Bank had shut off my card.

 

Swipe. Type. Declined.

 

Good job, Union Bank. Heck, I’m not even mad. That’s amazing. They’re like a tiny miniature Buddha.

 

I slam the door to my loft and now feel a steady stream of perspiration running down my back like one of those baby-angel fountains is taking a piss down my spine. I scramble to figure things out. Before I was thinking, ‘What the fuck do I do?’ like in a macro sense. Now I’m thinking ‘What the fuck do I do?’ in the micro sense. My phone is useless. My credit card is shut off. I can’t call my bank because I have no phone. I can’t really do much online to figure this shit out because my laptop is dying and the genius I am left my charger in Los Angeles. (Probably still plugged in) And the cash I have, melting away faster than the ice sculpture Kanye West had at his wedding. (Probably of himself no less.)

 

Half a glass of wine matures into a half a bottle, and I slip on the banana peel known as exhaustion and into sleep for a decade. My headphones and the random playlist of songs on my iTunes dictate the extremely weird dreams I have. I’m in my grandma’s living room, who’s been dead for years, with my ex? What the fuck!? I don’t even want to begin to analyze that bullshit. (Some stones are better left unturned) From my decades long slumber, ‘Rip Van Winkle’ gently awakes with astonishment, disbelief, and questions sliding off my tongue. ‘Where am I?’ is the first question as I slowly open my eyes as the romantic musings of Wiz Khalifa play on my headphones. ‘What time is it?’ 3:15. Three-fifteen in the morning!? ‘What the fuck is jabbing me in the back?’ My knife kit and all my camera equipment. Aside from my words, these are the two things I think will make me a success. And at this present moment all three of these motherfuckers are keeping me from sleeping.

 

Now I’m wide awake.

 

Have I mentioned, fuck my life?

 

Anyway, I’m going to try and sleep.  Write back soon.

 

Best,

 

Rick Scott

Traveling With Baggage

This is Marrakesh, but it's in Morocco so it counts!

This is Marrakesh, but it’s in Morocco so it counts!

 

For all the Game of Throne NERDS!  (I’m talking to myself as well, because I am addicted to Game of Thrones…but not enough to actually read the books.)

 

Great post from Go See Write!

 

I just recently got back from Morocco a month or so ago, but didn’t make it to the cities on the list.  However, I’ve been to Dubrovnik and Split, and without a doubt Croatia is one of the most slept on cities in the world.  I went there a few years back, with plans of going to Spain, Croatia, and Greece, in that order.  Spain was amazing, but when boarding the plane to Dubrovnik, I found myself wanting to skip Croatia and just get to Greece already.  I could not have been more wrong.  It’s like the random bar your friend drags you to cuz he’s heard good things and you end up getting lucky and going home with someone at the end of the night.  The bar will always have a soft spot in your heart and you will always want to go back. That’s Dubrovnik.  It was amazing and still proves to be one of my favorite European cities.  In some ways it’s the girl who I did crazy things with one night and can’t wait to do those things again.

 

Also check out Land Lopers for Matt’s awesome pics from Dubrovnik.

And my unrelated post on the Knockout Game of Thrones.