I'm not going to lie y'all -- I've broken a few of The Ten Commandments over the years. And while I've never killed anyone, I seem to be going for quantity of breakage over the quality of the sins I'm committing. In fact Commandment #10 seems to be a serious issue for me, because I covet like a motherfucker.
A good example of this sinning happened the other night while on one of those "couples dinners" you frequent as an official adult -- when I was informed said other couple was jaunting away to Iceland in a few months. The rage I felt was palpable -- it took all my effort to not squish the delicious piece of wood-fire-oven pizza between my fingers. I drank beer, watched their mouths move, but inside, all I could think was "THAT'S MY GODDAM TRIP!"
Iceland has, and will always be, the epitome of the perfect vacation in my eyes, driven solely by the music exuding from that isolated country, and the videos produced by Sigur Ros. The lush hills that extrude from glacier capped plains. The rock formations -- smooth and wet. The people, weird and beautiful in a Burtonesq way. I want to be there. I want to take off my shoes and walk across a fucking fjord.
But for now, I get to live another's trip via Instagram, and listen to "Isjaki" while crying on my iPad. Woo. Can. Not. Wait.