As I sit in this bus stop of an airport that is Fort Lauderdale–Hollywood International, I’m horrified at what the very near future will bring. Between an impending cumulative hangover ready to skullfuck me harder than an necrophilic indian witch doctor, a diabolical three day diet of mainly cocktail fruit and sugar-loaded frozen daiquiris brewing both Type 2 Diabetes in my bloodstream and hellfire out of my asshole, and a crippling anxiety attack sparked by returning to everyday normalcy looming, waiting for the post vacation plane ride home might be the most somber experience known to man.
Sure, I’m running on fumes from a weekend spent on the fantasy float fest that was the TFM Spring Break cruise — my body is about ninety-five percent poison — but how my coworkers can just tranquilly catch some Zs at our gate like this is downright psychotic. I feel like Brooks Hatlen walking out of Shawshank for the first time. I go off the grid for three days, and the world has seemingly passed me by. I’ve been institutionalized. All I know is boat life now, and once you have a taste of the two entree per night boat life, adjusting back to a mere one dinner existence is unfathomable.
Going from flipping casino chips between my fingers on the smooth green felt of the blackjack tables to tapping on my splintering black desk that sits inside a cubicle is less than ideal. Going from my daily objective of catching some rays poolside, abusing the all-inclusive booze package, and getting a laugh or two out of some busty blonde that doesn’t understand sarcasm or my general sense of humor back to the grind of the content game, crushing our office keurig, and optimistically getting a satisfactory “that’ll do, Dan” from you kindhearted, good-natured, knowledgable readers is even more painful. I’m going from wearing a lanyard and acting slightly annoyed whenever security asks if I’m seriously “media,” disputing my journalistic integrity and methods of double-fisting mint juleps backstage at a show to my none-credentialed but still very much challenged world.
Speaking of often challenged, the ink forever ingrained on my body that many of you consider regretful or moronic not only played with the cruise crowd, but they were arguably the most defendable and rational tattoos onboard. You know what will make you feel less ashamed of a generic cross on the lat? Thirty people with their last names plastered on their backs all within a stone’s throw from one another. That frat tat on my ankle? Miles better than the countless jamokes with barbed wire wrapped around their chicken legs. As an already noted “Hot Guy,” the universal acceptance on the ship of the few self-inflicted markings that otherwise might hamstring me in another setting actually made my life that much easier with the ladies.
Whether or not I closed on the cruise isn’t the point. It’s the positive reception and the ample amount of opportunities that presented themselves that I may or may not have squandered. Again, not really that important, but I get into a little dance off in the hallway with a few voluptuous twerking sexpots and they refer to me as “white daddy.” So yeah, you can chalk it up as a win.
As for my newly found Instagram modeling career? It seems like it could be short lived and done before it ever really had a chance to take off. Maybe one of the biggest tragedies of the modern era if we’re being completely transparent. I guess I could continue it here in the middle of Texas, but with no beaches nearby, it’s certainly going to be an uphill battle. You can’t just profoundly stare off into the distance, sensually lying on a rock in the middle of a park or even a murky river, and get the whole world pregnant. I mean, I can, but that crystal blue water really makes the pictures “pop” with the much needed sense of unwarranted entitlement and the appearance of living an elite life.
Honestly, I feel bad for how much I embarrassed these French chicks at their own game. The kid hops on his first ocean boulder and gets it on the first take while they’re still trying to get the shot thirty minutes later. They were visibly SHOOK.
Someone that could not be fazed, like always, was Boosh. Yes, I technically see his admirable, relentless numbers game with the honeys on an every weekend basis when we go out in Austin, but watching it on full display in international waters was a spectacle unlike any other.
Once in a lifetime shot by PGP writer, Will deFries. Cinematic gold. Just trying to get some footage of Tyga before his posse kicks the bejesus out of Cash Cash, and he stumbled upon Boosh mid-hunt. In classic Boosh form, he kept chugging along and eventually porked and tongue-tickled the temple of rave girl tang.
Absolutely majestic. Play on, player.
Fellow TFM Writer, Jared Borislow and myself also made a little bit of coin — tax free — thanks to some eastern European blackjack dealer that was just slinging straight fire our way for an hour, and now I have the itch again. It’s all I can think about. I’m considering driving to the rusty taint of America — Oklahoma — just to play a few hands this weekend. Crazy, I know.
Overall, the cruise was clearly problematic in my own life. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we left and I’m a damn junkie desperately looking to get another fix. It was a much simpler life. I didn’t have to worry about nonsense like money or work or sleep — everything was taking care of, and it was my mecca of vice. This might just be the hardest breakup I’ve ever endured..
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