Oh, those Mayans!

According to the Mayan calendar, today marks exactly five years until the end of the world. While I don’t particularly believe any of that, I do find it refreshing in an odd way.

Photo credit: me in 5 years, onboard a wicked-ass spaceship.

I’m not trying to be a Debbie Downer, but I do enjoy the idea of only having five years left to live. It’s a wake-up call, right? And it makes me think of how I would live my life differently if that’s going down.

Miss Cybil would work harder, travel more, and be nicer. She might also take up meth so I wouldn’t have to sleep as much. So Jimmy, what I’m saying is that Mayans have given us all a perfectly valid, possibly legal, excuse to do meth, and it would be awful to think otherwise.

Forget her camera? Miss Cybil did that!

Kids, take note: Miss Cybil does not forget things. True, she may forget the occasional holiday, birthday, or that time she “was supposed to pick her son up after surgery” (always with the club foot, Sal!), but generally speaking, her mouth is like a cave. Her brain’s like a trap door. Or something.

At least, she doesn’t forget her camera. But there are times when she just can’t take a photo, per se. And some times, these are the best times. Like the last week. I can’t show you a photo of:

1. The taste of eating an empanada after having an affair with a priest. (Hey, he wanted it!)

2. The cool lashing of a breeze off of a lakeside…. somewhere.

3. The joy of playing bingo on the bus while sitting next to a lady who just may want the first prize (a bottle of Vino) almost as much as you. And the ensuing attempt to have the winner disqualified, because let’s face it, did he really look older than 15? I don’t think so.

4. Patagonian sunsets that seem to last all day, stretch further than the horizon itself, and introduce a new color each day.

5. Seeing The Bourne Ultimatum on the big screen, with not one but two kids from Boston!

6. Taking a cab ride around the city at night. Just for the hell of it.

7. Finding a new apartment! Okay, I’m lying, I did take a photo of my little outdoor area:

Not shown: a really hot, shirtless guy who was right around the corner, ready to give me “breakfast in bed.” Hey–I’m divorced, Jimmy, give me a break. And you know what? I do pilates. Granted, not as much since I’ve fallen in love with the empanada stand nearby, but enough so that I deserve a little breakfast in bed, you know what I mean? Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

P.S. What I’m trying to say is that I was unk-dray for about a week and am only now coming out of what my landlady so lovingly referred to as an “American coma.” God bless those Mexicans!

Returning to Buenos Aires? Miss Cybil did that!

Argentina, I want my money back. First, I had to deal with the inanity that was the “south” of Argentina, just because I was politely asked to leave my hotel. (And Jimmy suggested I leave the city for a while, even though those nuns had it coming, I tell you!) But then I decided to come back to Buenos Aires.

So Lois, I went to the park. And you know what I saw? A couple that seemed to be on the verge of divorce.

Photo credit of impending doom: Cybil Blaine

Granted, you might not be able to tell from the photo. But I can. Just look at how resigned to a life of despair they both seemed to be!

And then, you know what? Some guy came up to the cars while they were at the stoplight!

Photo credit of impending chaos: Cybil Blaine

In New York, when you were at a stoplight, they just pissed on the cars. But this guy, he was playing the trumpet. I liked it better when they pissed on the cars. At least the world wasn’t pretending to be nice for a minute.

So I tried to decompress by going to this paseo part of the park with marble something-or-other and lots of trees and roses. Sounds nice, right? Well, just take a looksie:

Yeah, that’s right. This random, anonymous girl just got all up in my face at the park! Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

People, I tried to have a nice day, but disaster was all around me. So then I left the park and went back downtown. Could I get a second of peace and quiet? Not so much. I mean, really. Like the weather wasn’t bad enough!

(But they were still cute!)

What I’m trying to say is that this city, it needs help. Not me, I swear.

Miss Cybil votes… for pie at 2pm!

Okay kids, I’ve gotta get a load off of my chest. No, not the time I set fire to a monastery just to get back at God for that time I had to go to a church on Easter! Fine, near a church. My mother made me go near a church, because there was one on the way to the liquor store. But I was still scarred for life.

No, kids, what Miss Cybil wants to get off of her much bally-hooed “killer rack “is that her lawyer, Jimmy, didn’t tell her that Argentina is a democracy. It’s maybe going to be an election year, soon-ish,  so it seems you can’t go more than five feet without seeing the face of some guy. Now, I’m not bitter because I was just divorced by Voldemort, who I incidentally just put through dental school. Really! I’m just bitter because I have a hard enough time deciding what shoes to wear.

Much less what dude’s face I’ll want to ignore for the next four years. Besides, I haven’t been sober enough to vote since the Nixon administration. So I’m voting for Nacho.

And you know what? He’s got my vote. I say: let a Mexican into the White House! I mean, why not?

Although I probably shouldn’t, on account of my having eaten so many carbs since I got to Buenos Aires, or Peru, or wherever the hell I am! I’m getting a little rump in the roast, if you know what I mean (my butt’s getting big!), you’d really think that the black guys would be lining up to get a piece. So after I decided to go Atkins style, and I walked through Gaiman.

Yes, that’s Gaiman, also known as some random Welsh settlement, in the middle of the day. And no, I’m not making the footbridge bit up. Like, do hobbits live there? I mean, really. But now like I didn’t have enough enemies in the world–Lois, I’m looking at you, dear, I know you’ve been snatching my TV Guide–the hobbit people heard my Atkins pleas. And you know what they gave me for lunch? Get a load of this: 
See, while I wanted food, the rest of Argentina was sleeping–in other words, no other place was open while I was fucking starving–so I had to get tea. And Welsh tea service, as Miss Cybil discovered, is merely an excuse to have a smorgasbord of desserts in the middle of the day.

But you know what? I found something else out about myself: pie at 2 pm? I’m okay with that!