Come fly with me

Two weeks to go. 
Two weeks and I'll be landing here: 

Now I don't know how old that photograph is but there you go - Lusaka International Airport. You know, it's that big thing with "Lusaka International Airport" written on it. Not much compared to Heathrow or Pearson but meh, it'll do. 

I can already imagine the landing - I won't have to wait in line like all the other foreigners because, hey, I'm not a foreigner! I'll just run on over to whatever desk they have serving us Zambians, get my passport stamped, and proceed out the door. The process literally takes about 30 minutes, and that's counting the landing. See the top of the tree right above the building? That's probably in the parking lot.

What worries me, however, is the actual flying. I'm not accustomed to sitting in one seat (that was clearly designed for a slightly obese child) for periods longer than an hour, so obviously, transatlantic flights really aren't my thing.

And don't get me started on the person who's probably going to sit next to me. Is it too much to ask for someone at least mildly attractive? Apparently it is. I need something to look at when I get bored and rhinos, endangered though they may be, aren't exactly what I like to call pretty. With my luck, that's probably all I'll get.

Then there are the flight attendants. The majority of them are as pleasant as can be, but there's always the one who seems to detest his/her job. Have you ever been faced with one of those? I have. Half the time you can't even tell they're being rude because they're smiling. Then when they walk away you're like "Wait, what??"

After sitting in a children's car seat next to the hunchback of Notre Dame for seven hours, I'm sure I won't be in the mood for anyone's bullshit. No siree Bob.

Oh well, one can only hope for the best. This time I'll be prepared, neck pillow and ear plugs at the ready. My iPod will be fully charged, my spirits will be high and my wits will be about me. And if I do get stuck with a rhinoceros? I'll take a picture and pray it doesn't snore.

Shit a brick

It's been a long while since I had the living shit scared out of me, but I'm proud to say that I am no longer living an adrenaline-free life.
I had the pleasure of seeing Insidious at the cinema today. After a mild struggle with the ticket vending machine (Visa Paywave wouldn't work for one reason or another...perhaps I was using it wrong?) we waited at the ticket-checking counter for a minute or so before deciding to just go ahead. It made me wonder whether purchasing tickets was even necessary.
Anyway, after starting off with the usual previews, I was thrust head-first into the thrill ride that is Insidious. I was literally scared shitless for latter three quarters of the movie. I haven't seen a horror movie that good in a very, very long time. I strongly suggest you see it. Of course, better stuff has been made before but Insidious is a good refresher for any lover of the horror genre.
After I got home, I made sure to turn on all the lights - I was expecting some sinister creature to jump out from any possible dark corner or a face to materialize in a window. Those are the times you both appreciate and regret the fact that you're living in a basement. Appreciate because, like it or not, the basement is a pretty safe place with little to no windows, and regret because if something did happen to me and I screamed my lungs out for help, no one would hear me. Someone would probably only stumble upon my lifeless body three days after I had died.
Yes, Insidious messed me up. But isn't that the point? A good horror movie's horrors stay with you long after you leave the cinema. If they hadn't, I'd consider the venture an utter waste of $7.45, and in that case, I'd rather have purchased an equally thrilling McDonald's meal.

Journalist's journal

Today I made some new friends - a few fellow journalists-in-training. As I listened to the stories of their adventures over a pleasant lunch in the cafeteria, I looked back through the short but colourful time I had spent with my own class.
What struck me most about these memories was how weird they were. It was as if they weren't my own, but someone else's outlandish fictional creations that were implanted into the part of my brain responsible for memory. Is that the prefrontal lobe? I don't know. I should have googled it before I started writing, but oh well. 
Anyway, as I was saying, I have some pretty weird memories. And you know why? Because my journalism class was fucking weird. Like take 20 random people off 20 different streets in 20 different towns (possibly even countries), and throw them into one room weird. But despite our weirdness, we somehow managed to mesh together well, some times better than others. 
As I proceed to the next chapter of my life (Chapter 5, in case you hadn't noticed) I wonder if my new classmates will ever live up to the old. I'm probably in for my share of craziness going to an art school, but I wouldn't be surprised if I never meet a crazier group of people than the ones I'm parting ways with. Must be a journalism thing.
Yes, yes, you're probably thinking I haven't seen anything yet. Well, my dear reader, if you haven't been around me and my class, then it is you who hasn't seen anything yet. And when you finally do, God help you.

Oh, the shame!

Usually, when you start your day by tripping and almost falling flat on your face, things are bound to go downhill from there, right?
I woke up this morning feeling better than I had the night before. My cold seemed to be under control thanks to an intensive home treatment plan I had executed before going to bed, and I felt like everything in the world was going to be all right. 
A few minutes later, as I walked up the stairs to the kitchen to grab my bowl of cereal just like Rebecca Black, my slipper got caught on a step and I was sent hurtling into space like a poorly launched rocket. I shudder when I imagine the expression I must have had on my face. I tried to keep my balance but to no avail - in less than a second, I was on my hands and knees, my mind reeling from the fall that was probably heard in the next-door neighbour's basement. Oh, and did I mention all of this happened in front of onlookers? Yes, dear reader. It was embarrassing.
My elbows and knees ached like a bitch but I just got up and tried to act like nothing had happened, my usual reaction to public mishaps. At worst, I carry on without a word, but I thought this occasion warranted some kind of expression of surprise/shock. Needless to say, the incident didn't do my ego any good.
The situation reminded me of several other embarrassing moments I've had before. One time I walked 15 minutes to school in jeans that still had the size label attached. I'm now convinced half the town knows what size jeans I wear and is conspiring to ensure it's never available.
Yes, I've had my fair share of embarrassing moments. I wouldn't be me if I didn't regularly get myself in awkward situations. So if you're ever around me, I'm gonna warn you right now...

Diseased Monday

Thrilled as I am to have survived another long day, I think I am coming down with something. For months, I have watched my friends drop like flies on Facebook and succumb to one of winter's worst punishments besides -20 degree weather - the common cold. 
Try as I may, it seems I am utterly unable to stay disease-free every winter. Despite this being only my second cold this year as compared to the five I had last time, it would be nice to not get sick at all, don't you think? 
I felt it this morning when I got out of bed, that slight tickle in my throat and a slowly increasing collection of phlegm. Disgusting, yes, but diseases are never pleasant. I kept feeling it when I left the house and it only got worse as time progressed. The bus was late as usual so that gave me a few extra minutes of standing in the cold. Whoop-dee-fucking-do.
So by the time I was sitting at my computer at my co-op placement, I had grudgingly accepted the fact that there was no way my throat would magically get better. It was then that I realized I had to ride this sickness out till the end like a brave sick person. 
After battling a mild depression, I said to myself, "Fuck this shit" and started looking forward to getting better. I guess that's the moment people call acceptance. Whatever. I can't spend my time worrying about being sick. Not that I have too much to do, but you know what I mean. I just wish there was some kind of medication you could take to make it all go away in an hour. I'll take two, please!
And that brings me to my other point: Why the fuck isn't there a cure for the cold? Surely, if we can transplant an ear onto a mouse, we can discover a cure for one of the smaller inconveniences of life. I'm sure if I bothered to carry out extensive research, I'd discover the answer to that question, but remember, I'm sick now.
The plus side to all of this is the relief I will receive once I finally recover and the knowledge that, hopefully, I won't get sick for quite some time. Life usually works that way; slaps you in the face and then gives you a kiss. Bad metaphor, I know. 
Anyway, I'll concentrate on regaining my health. Until then, I'll just fucking hate being sick.

Welcome to Chapter 5

Having watched Julie and Julia for the second time, I have decided to start a blog in the hopes that I shall one day get a book/movie deal, assuming the world doesn't end in 2012. My previous attempts at blogging haven't lasted very long, but I hope this one is here to stay.
You may be wondering why this blog is named Chapter 5. If you are, I'm going to explain it, and if you're not, well, I'm going to explain it anyway. 
Chapter 5 is just another transitional stage in my and many other people's lives. Chapter 1 was grade school, Chapter 2 was high school, Chapter 3 was the time after high school and before college, Chapter 4 was college, and Chapter 5 is what comes next. For me, it is going to be university; for others, it could be getting a job or having a baby. Chapter 5 is unique to everyone, so make of it what you will.
So, with this record of my life in Chapter 5 and all other subsequent chapters, I will provide you, my soon-to-be loyal reader, with unparalleled insight into my turbulent life. OK, that might be a slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean.
I shall soon be embarking on a summer trip to my home in Africa and that will serve as the kick start to my new life, which will include, but will not be limited to, employment, independence, financial responsibility, higher education and being an all-around better person than I was before.
But before I undertake this seemingly perilous journey, I am to complete the 120 hours of a co-op placement required to graduate from my current program of study - journalism. Yes, I am a trained journalist (I've waited four years to say that). If you think that makes me opinionated, loud-mouthed and inconsiderate, you are correct.
So here, my dear reader, is where our story begins, with a 20-year-old journalist sitting at his computer, excited to finally be done and on the next plane off the North American continent. The coming weeks could be fascinating or absolutely mundane, I can't tell for sure. But however they turn out, and we shall soon see, I want to formally welcome you to my Life's Chapter 5.