Entertaining Effects of Severe Jetlag

After spending Santa Claus break in the Ohio motherland, I made my return trip to France on Tuesday.  It was one of those 24 hours straight of travel, no sleep, high doses of caffeine and soda pop kinda days, and, at my most sleep deprived/depraved state towards the very end of the ordeal while I was waiting on my train to Poitiers for a good four hours in the unheated Charles de Gaulle train station, I thought it’d be funny to write a journal entry so that I could look back later and laugh at what would most likely be scribblings of raving lunacy.  Below is the typed up entry – proof of the curious, sometimes alarming, effects of jetlag on the human mind:

“Hollerrrr – it’s me, Kass Normandus.  Just another unsettling day in the life abroad, wanderlust Wanda-ing around town.  This just in: I’m sitting in the gawd DAMN cold CDG [Charles de Gaulle] train waiting hell, breathing/sobbing so hard that I can see my breath bursting out, fogging up my freaky, bloodshot eyes, before freezing into tiny lil specks of pissicles and cracking on the dirty, dirty trodden train floor.  I’m sitting on a bench that might as well either be an awkward slab of ice or a Siberian madness-inducing torture tool.  In an attempt to “warm up” (<<euphemism for “avoid dying of hypothermia”), with great hope, I bought a large hazelnut coffee – a magical hot elixir that would obviously solve all of my problems.  However, I forgot to consider how difficult it might be to carry three bags, along with a coffee clutched with my numb, frostbitten fingers, and very quickly, my fine caffeine salvation found itself splattered all over the stupid floor.  Luckily, large coffees in France are served in tiny cardboard shot glasses so there wasn’t an embarrassing mess to feel too ashamed of; unluckily, each of these thimble cups suitable only for ants costs around $507, so there was no going back for seconds.   Anywhoooo, I’m semi-delirious in the first place because I chose to watch disturbing airplane movies and read my French book like a rebel da whole flight rather than catch a little peep eye.  And OH MY GAH the man sitting beside me right now on this ice block is humming in the most faint, high-pitched whisper of a sound that gives me the most awkward, FURIOUS, shiver me timbers chills – just keep your CREEPY CREEPY NIGHTMARE whisperhums to yourself, amirite?!  And the whiny lil devil children whose number one hobby appears to be shrieking seem to get a kick in flocking toward my general vicinity like bloodthirsty, demon-possessed mosquitos.  These rabid animals I mean children have made a very powerful enemy today and their barbaric crimes committed against me and my lingering shred of my sanity shall remain forever documented in the renowned historical document that is my journal. Whether this four-hour waiting game in Parisian Antarctica ends in tears, brass knuckles, or a spotting of the Loch Ness monster, I cannot say.  At this point, reality and illusion are blurring together quite nicely, and who’s to say that this isn’t one big, freezing, demented dream français?  Let’s just hope that things become un petit peu clearer by the time I reach my host fam in Poitiers.  If not, I may very well be rapidly deported back to Amurrica quicker than you can say ‘Accio my marbles.'”

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