I've been bitten. Itching red bumps decorate my collarbone like small rubies; little misplaced nipples.
I've got it bad, the travel bug.
The cure, I'm afraid, is to quit my job, give up all but precious few of my possessions and leave the country. All day long I read articles on traveling and visas, Steripens, WOOFING and quick-dry clothing. I'm now familiar with the concept of onward travel tickets. Credible sources suggest it's possible to live abroad for about $15,000 a year, perhaps less (where exchange rates are more favorable).
Dreams of travel writing and photojournalism whir around me dizzyingly. First, I need to get a couple frequent flyer cards and begin rapidly accruing miles. I'll also need to make myself a bit more presentable; maybe get a few articles published so that I appear more marketable, to secure a sponsor, or at least gain readership.
I can see it now; trekking through Nepal, photographing the Himalayas, hanging with Buddhist monks. Seducing Buddhist nuns! I'll challenge the whole notion of non-grasping:
"Grasp it! Grasp it! Now pump! Pump! PUMP!"
What? I was talking about inflating a flat bicycle tire. Perverts.
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