Paradise Lost on Me

On any given normal day, my own delicious blend of paranoia and internal struggle to believe that only good things are coming my way prevent me from doing some of society’s most mundane tasks. I might skip a subway ride into the city if I don’t particularly care for the aura of the souls already inside the train’s cars – or especially if someone I only believe to be capable of unspeakable acts of crazy is boarding right before me. If a stranger is looking to gain entry into my apartment building, most likely you will catch me going into the back entrance as to not have to be the one who lets them in to see a friend – in fact, I’ve been known to just go sit across the street and wait them out, because we both know they just want to gain access to go rape and rob some poor soul who lives a floor below me.  Even a trip to the bank can seem like an insurmountable task, just because I’ve become convinced the police officer who guards mine has it out for me and is looking for the slightest indication that I’m up to no good to gun me down. I know these things are unlikely, but I can’t shake the thoughts completely – even when there are no tangible pieces of evidence to suggest that any of these types of things occur with any kind of frequency.

So, when I say that I am heading to Mexico for a little rest and relaxation, you’d be right to snort or chuckle – is it really possible for this guy to head to a place that the media routinely showcases as the closest worst decision a traveler can currently make? Will the crystal blue waters be enough to distract me from the idea that at any moment a character straight out of a Robert Rodriguez shoot-em-up will come take me and the Mrs. for the type of ride no one wants to take – and that our heads will become his trophies, as some cartel finally looks to step across that supposedly firm line in the sand that says they won’t touch the tourists in their conquest to be Mexico’s most notorious organization? And of course, there is always the possibility that what little Spanish we picked up in Costa Rica, coupled with our good-looks, will only lead to a small misunderstanding that ends up seeing us as permanent drug mules due to the belief that border patrol agents turn a blinder eye to a couple of skinnies who can carry a convo. Why, oh why, are we headed to the very country my own black-ops friend suggested we steer clear of for our honeymoon just a short year and a half ago when there are so many other beautiful beaches in the world?

I have no answers. Sometimes, even when you live with permanent level 9 paranoia, ego plots the course and the denial that it wields fills you up all comfy with the idea that if you’ve given adequate thought to every worse case scenario, none of it will come to fruition. Unless of course you mention it in some blog post, then it’s some sort of double negative as they pertain to jinxes – and well… you still go, because you already done paid for it. Wish us luck!

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