Holy shit. I’m going to Rome.

I may have known about this trip since, oh, 2013ish– but when you stop at AAA to pick up your Euros, shit gets real.  When you make the phone calls to make sure your plastic will work on a different continent, it starts to really set in.  Holy shit.  I’m going to Rome.

The look on his face! That’s the “aw fuck!” look!

That’s right, I’m actually going to set foot on another goddamn continent for the first time.  Let me relish this; don’t judge me because this shit’s business as usual for you.  Yeah, I’ve been on a plane before– but this?  I guess I’ve suppressed nearly a year’s worth of excitement, and I finally had it set in yesterday after leaving the office.  Now it’s here.  It’s real.  I’m officially on vacation.  I suddenly have a lot of excitement.

I’m not talking “I’m gonna go party with the old guard” excitement.
I’m not talking “Holy shit, I’m going to graduate college!” excitement.  (Some of you really get that one.)
I’m not talking “CANOE TRIP!” excitement.
I’m not talking “dick in a box” excitement.
I’m not talking “I got published” excitement.
I’m not even talking “I’m getting married” excitement.  (Guys, take note of what I just did there.)

This is a level that hasn’t hit me in…  I don’t know, too long if not ever.  As if a week in Rome wasn’t already a sticky spot in my pants, my parents went ahead and landed us a Papal audience.

No, not that one. The good one.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what your religion is or is not– you can’t tell me that you can’t appreciate the sum of architecture, art, and splendor all around the Vatican.  All if which I will record here.  That’s right, kids, I’m taking this motherfucker on the road!  … or would that be air?

Oh… and fuck my fitness goals.  I’m coming back at least 20lbs heavier from this Roman holiday.

Because Italy.

Now ‘scuse me, I need to get back to packing to head back to the motherland.

Unplug.