Cold Waste Lands: How'd I get here in summer?

Plans of summer travel seemed to be fading, and another dull few weeks of working from home seemed inevitable. Then, at 3:47 in the morning, precisely two minutes before receiving a drunk dial from my brother in Minneapolis, a moment of genius hits me. And I knew it was genius, because Hunter S. Thompson always spoke of how geniuses were up thinking in the wee hours of the morning.

So the best idea for a summer vacation plan: have the worst summer I've ever had. I know this sounds crazy, but look through the madness and stay with me. We're not talking about mediocre, annoying, etc: we're talking about the kind of stinker that's so bad that you never forget the date.

First, I'm going to lose everything I own. And I'm not going to Vegas to do this. Las Vegas is very cool and offers free drinks. If anything else, you can say "I went to Las Vegas and lost everything." That's a cool story. None of that, either. I'm thinking Bumstown, Alabama, or Wherethehellarewe, Idaho, or something along those lines. Some place any self respecting person wouldn't be caught dead in.

After losing everything, it's time to go hitchhike in the rain. This will be miserable for someone like me because I'm big and scary looking, and there's no way anyone is going to stop and give me a ride. Unless they're scary, in which case we're going right along with the worst summer ever.

Hitchhike to somewhere where it's easy to get stranded. I'm thinking small desert town of 80 people, no town within three hours, no hotel or travelers in sight. I am then going to kick a wall repeatedly stubbing my toes. I'll alternate feet every other day until walking, standing, sitting, or just lying down hurts like all heck.

Then I'm going to find a crooked cop to make fun of. Not too crooked, I'm not trying to kill myself, just a nice once over with a taser and/or baton - preferably both.

When I finally make my way to something that passes for civilization, I'll beg and publicly make a spectacle of myself until I have enough to start a 24 cans of pop a day addiction. This will be solely to force myself into rehab, which the withdrawals are going to just be brutal. There's no aspirin to take care of the headaches that come from going of caffeine cold turkey like that.

I won't have showered at all at this point. Being a personal hygiene fanatic, this is going to perhaps be the worst of all. Any time I have a happy thought, I'm going to stub my toes or hammer my funny bone. That'll take care of that.

Also, I'm going to take on any bet involving fire ants, bear mace, or a riled up raccoon and a burlap sack.

Homeless and drifting, I'll make my back to an area I'm familiar with. If losing everything brings on some weird metaphysical transformation a la Kerouac or Thoreau, I'll walk in a rain storm until I find a rich suburb to remind me of what I don't have.

After another cop beating, I can Google the names of all the girls who I fell for and failed to keep. That'll twist the dagger. Then, when September 1st finally comes, I'll go back to normal.

Why would anyone ever do this?

Simple: after having the worst summer "vacation" of anyone, anywhere, in recent memory, there's never any place to go but up. Car runs over my foot? That's fine - it's no summer of 2009. My house was burned down by a group of drunk unemployed circus clowns? Although terrifying (I have an unnatural fear of clowns), no problem, it doesn't hold a candle to the summer of 2009. Future girlfriend leaves me for future ex-best friend? Whatever. It was no summer of 2009.

I'll never have to worry about having a bad summer again - because it won't compare to the summer of 2009. In a twisted genius way it's brilliant. All I'll ever have to do to be in a good mood again is to remember that the summer of 2009 is gone and never coming back. The best way I can beat the summer time blues, is to have a summer so horrific that nothing will ever come close to matching it again. After that, it'll all be smooth and cool.

Pretty sweet, huh?