Part 1 in my two part series on my travel experiences in Miami. Don’t hold your breath for the second-part in a few weeks time. It won’t be spectacular or anything.
“Going to America”. The crucial thought that got my sack of carbon waste through the first year of University. A thought, that when repeated, liberated me from the crushing difficulties of getting laid (my face had a lot to do with that) and freed me from trendy London kids who, having grown up with fields surrounding me in all directions, provoked me with their cool sense of style (I was wearing bandanas for fuck sake) and bamboozled me with their obscure urban mutterings.
Yes, that simple line, “going to America”, became my mantra of sorts. Repeated in my head like a Hare Krishna tripping on acid, I used it to remind myself that across the pond everything might be better and that I, once transplanted there, would lose my cheap-80s-hair-rock vagina-repulsing physical aesthete.
Needless to say, things don’t always work out the way you plan.
My experiences in Miami? The reason I have no real desire to ever go back to the USA.
Unless I get a casting call for a modern remake of Sweet Valley High or something. In which case I really need to start fellating more TV execs.