The trip to Los Angeles didn’t happen. I’m going to leave it at that. I’m applying the funds for the ticket to fly back home for a two-week stay. I still owed the airline money, but thankfully it was less than sixty dollars. As usual, the dates for my annual visit correlate with those of the Minnesota State Fair. Instead of going to Los Angeles, I drove to Orlando. I basically stayed in the hotel room all day, went to the pool in the afternoon, and enjoyed eating a lot of new food in the evening. In the process, I wrote many reviews and shared my pictures on Yelp. I also drank too much and got sick because tequila is gross and one sip of that nasty substance is all it takes to make me ill — proof that it doesn’t matter how much watermelon there was in that margarita, tequila and I do not mix well. Going to the pool was one of the first times recently where I didn’t give any fucks about what people thought about me. There were those lookers but I didn’t let them get to me.
As the days approach to my departure for my home, I’m reminded of many things I miss. I miss bland food that I can’t find replacements for down here. I’ll probably buy a couple half-baked pizzas and freeze them, just so I can enjoy them within the first few days of coming back. (Seriously, I will.) Frankie’s. Fish sliders. Oyster wings. Jucy Lucy. Clive’s. Jin’s. Wild rice soup with ham. Beer cheese soup. Caramel roll. Walleye! Walleye!! Walleye!!! This list of food doesn’t include what I get at the fair. I thought I may return back heavier, but after overeating for a week in Orlando, I still haven’t gained. I stepped on the scale for the first time in a month because I was sick of someone telling me what I can and can’t do to my body. (In a passive-aggressive voice: I get it, you hate fat people and you’re changing yourself, but you don’t need to go and shit on everyone else.) I’m perfectly fine with the number because it’s just a number. I feel great!
But then there’s the part of me that says, “I’m in trouble.” I have an excess amount of energy which only means one thing: I’m manic. Have I ever voluntarily wanted to clean the whole apartment? (The answer is no.) I can’t sleep. I’m moving around way too much. (OK, this shouldn’t be a thing but it is usual for me.) Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough. The following weeks after won’t either. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, I just don’t like the symptoms. It’s incredibly hard to describe to someone how I feel if they’ve never experienced the same thing.