Most travel writers (the respected ones) get sent on assignment, others (the whores) have to lick the balls of a tour company to blag a heavily discounted trip. The side effect of being a huge arrogant fucktard is that I’m unable to do either.
I, jilted reader, like the many who’ve stumbled into a Thomas Cook before me, am open to the waves of persuasion. I, simple reader, am privy to the literal imaginations and wank-worthy photography of “real” travel authors too.
It’s a crying shame, not just because I’m more easily manipulated than putty in the hands of an Anna Nicole Smith-lookalike, but also because it positions me as one of the most indecisive travellers this horrific world has ever seen.
Even now as I sit, surrounded by my stable of impossibly attractive ladyboys, I just can’t make my mind up as to what to do next (after a good old romp obviously) in this ridiculously orgasmic dream I call my life.
The Curse of Indecision
It didn’t used to be like this however. Back when I was an impressionable young whippersnapper, I was pussy-whipped into making destination decisions based on the hot young things that found themselves lucky enough to be on my arm. Before that, I was subject to the plans of my faithful parents, those who created and nurtured the beautiful artist whose words your eyes are delightfully skipping over now.
But when I was cut loose into this world and came of age as a man (stifle your guffaws now), things got a whole lot more complicated. No longer with anybody to take the mantle over which country I would be having lacklustre sex/dribbling in next, it was my own ultra-undependable self I had to trust to help lead me onto the path of the travelling straight and narrow.
Needless to say I was about as cocksure as Ricky Martin was over the small matter of his sexuality back in the late 90s. Not very.
Weighing It All Up
Interestingly not much has changed for me since being cut loose from the blind leadership of others (it has for Ricky). Still as opinion seeking and affirmation-affected as ever, choosing my next travel destination to haunt is almost as difficult as attempting to last over 6 minutes in the superb cacophony that is coitus.
I read one piss-heap of a guide to “country X” and I’m committed hook, line and sinker to a flying visit based on some very thin criteria alone. A few minutes later and a conversation with another itinerant helps persuade me to change up said plan and instead head out to Patpong, ping-pong paddle in hand and a head full of sordid dreams (of what I might do with Raymond from Man on the Lam no doubt) in tow.
Put Raymond’s bouncy little pair out of the equation though (assuming he has two testicles of course) and what am I left with? A bunch of unfulfilled promises and a crippling sense of overwhelm that makes even the most experienced personal development blogger lose control of their nauseously over-clenched bowel (that’s right Steve Pavlina, feel free to shit yourself now).
It’s hell I tell thee.
Fuck This, Let’s Look for a Gimmick
For my other, dubiously steel-bollocked brothers in this industry, this decision-making process seems to be just as difficult.
Take the writers that put their wandering to the votes of their readers (yes, something that this sad act indeed tried in an extreme moment of weakness), isn’t this just another flagrant cop out in determining ones own fate?
I mean surely there’s more interesting ways of fixing on your next destination too? Like holding a toddler over SkyScanner at gunpoint and asking the little tyke to click away in a deluge of snot and tears while you piss all over his Disney DVD collection? Or getting your dog to choose by licking your screen while you’ve pulled up a list of destinations on Go See Write?
For the most indecisive traveller in the world, both seem a whole lot better than trusting my Fisher-Price instincts.
Now where did little Fido go?