My happy place or yours?
When people tell me I'm crazy, it comes out in a sing-song tone. You know the one. I'm sure you've heard it from a few friends if you've ever met "someone special" on the internet, drunkenly applied the 5-second rule to pizza, or dated a girl with "DAN'S BEEF" tattooed on her ass.
It's how friends react when they're pretty sure you're screwing up, but glad you're taking one for the team. If not for the shit you pull, they'd be stuck talking about the weather and, oh I dunno, something important. Your friends might worry about you, but they also can't wait to tattle. It takes the focus off them, for the last time they effed up.
So what if you threw up that "perfectly good" ham sandwich, or if you missed your plane despite having "plenty of time" to get to the airport? Sure you woke up on a beach in Southeast Asia stripped of your trainers, passport and pride, but "that chick was really hot." I'm sure most of the time you're trouble-free, but no one remembers when things are just alright. That's why extreme sports and alcohol exist.
Oh, and working visas for the UK.
My friend Christina thinks I'm insane for moving to London. "It's damp and expensive," she says, far more crudely than that. She lives in Mexico where it's sunny year-round, and she's paying $50/month for rent (which she earns making jewellery). She gets water from a hose in the yard and her home is made of cement and sticks. See, she's actually crazy. She's also hilarious and happy. Maybe I'm nuts to sell all my shit and move to England, with nothing but a few good friends, a laptop and a working visa to my name. But I'd be more crazy not to.
I'm not so different from Christina. Our happy places are just really, really far apart.
(Meet Christina and her husband, Luis. Mel Gibson tried to recruit him for Apocalypto, but Luis didn't want to cut his hair. They used to live in a little hut on the beach in Mahahual, but then a hurricane ate it.)