Just got back from New York. Went on a little vacation with my parents this weekend. June (the gossipy bitch across the way), told us we should go somewhere exciting like New York or Miami, so we were instantly packed up and in the car on the way to the airport. The plane ride was extremely short, so short in fact I can't remember it. We got on a bus, and proceeded to find our hotel. My mom and dad went to the front to ask the bus driver to point out where it was, and I plopped down a few seats behind the driver to window gaze. As my mom pissed off the driver by demanding too much of him, my dad gave up and sat down ahead of me. He appeared to be in his regular attire of a bathrobe.
Mom was busy fueding with the wheelman, as I was remembered of how much I hate streets that are just numbers. 53rd went by. 7 went by. I kept brooding about those damn numbered streets until I noticed the Royal Plaza Hotel on the left, being just as I remembered from Home Alone 2. We began driving through fields, and the driver continued to point out other passengers that had gotten on at the airport who weren't being a nuissance. A large "country" mother with her 3 littl'uns, started to nag. We rode the bus for so long that eventually we started the whole trip over again. Whaddya know, the hotel was right there at the start. I decide to become visible again and walk up to tell my mom.
Then I woke up. I started thinking, "Man is this really how I see my mom?" Then a more important question popped up.
"How long have I loathed numbered streets?
No comments:
Post a Comment