I'm in the airport now, and the Internet access here is patchy at best, so I'm just gonna run this quick:

1) I'll be flying off to Japan in 2 hours time

2) I have butterflies the size of Mothra

3) I'm having food coma

4) This will be the furthest I've ever been from home

It's still like walking into a dream. The type that makes you climb stairs in a desert, leaving you parched and dying. But surreal all the same.

Which me luck against Godzilla.

So, one part of me is saying; “Why the fuck aren’t you asleep?”, while another part is saying that “If you’re not fucking sleeping, why aren’t you clocking word count for NaNoWriMo?”. But I had tried; I sat staring at the previous words I’ve written and waited for more words to come ... and nothing came. But the words, oddly enough, came for this, so I figured that skipping one night would do me some favours. In one shoddy way, I am writing still. And it keeps a stagnant blog slightly less decadent. So shut it, Conscience B.

(Another reason for not being asleep is that, right now, my hair is still wet, and I have mud on my face. It’s most likely mud mixed with random herbs that is packed and marketed as a Neem Face Pack, which was shoved into my hands by the people who bought it, telling me that it’ll do me good and make me a better looking man if I kept at it – and I’m just thinking that hey, if it’s free, and if it ensures that I won’t have to consider plastic surgery over the next few years, why not? So here I am, in the middle of the night, typing on a blog entry I shouldn’t be making with mud smeared on my face, making me feel increasingly metrosexual. That would be the mud bit.)

But nights like this are worth being up, just for a little while. And I have jazz and numbers by Ol’ Blue Eyes right here, and he’s doing a great job telling how life should be.

And maybe it’s the jazz, and the night feeling so placid and empty, that I feel like I could do with a shot of Bourbon. The kind you take over at the bar, with the bartender named Joe, while the jukebox plays something like what Ol’ Blue Eyes would sing, about making one for the road. And I could say, I could tell you a lot, but it’s not... in a gentleman’s code. And then drink. And then say, “Hit me with another one, Joe. For old times’ sake.”

But reality is a sour bitch. I don’t drink, and I don’t know what Bourbon is. The nearest bar is in town and it’ll be playing seedy KTV music. And I might feel like I could do with a drink, but the drink would probably do as much as a favour to me as playing a round on an arcade machine. A quick, forgetful thrill. And I’d personally choose the latter.

There’s probably some coherence, or maybe some sense, in what I’ve just written. And damn if I’m gonna bother checking for one or giving it something.

You can shut up now, Conscience B. And A.

(But Joe, maybe... you know: Make it just one more, for my baby. And one more for the road).