On the Seriousness of Tourists #11


I shall wait for all of you to cross.  All of you just leaping across the stones, oohing and ahhing.  Tourists who’ve read Harry Potter and played Pokeman Go.  Banal, I say.  Yes, yes, you are!

Me!  I am Aero, my avatar.  I will wait all night by the Ayleid ruins for you to leave me be.  I will swing my sword Dawnbreaker and strike fire at the monsters lurking in these waters.  I will shoot my storm mana at dragons in the sky.  I will dodge the evil wizards hiding in the woods across the way.  Yes, yes, I will wait.

I may be in England, but I live in Skyrim.


On the Seriousness of Tourists #10

IMG_0655.jpgOne day someone will love me like that.

Can you believe some tourist with a Prada purse is complaining about them taking up all the space on this narrow path to the castle?  Is she kidding?  To see that love.  So free.  So exuberant.  It’s better than another touristy trdelnik sweet shop.

One day someone will tilt me back in a poof of a dress and kiss me in front of a throng of tourists.  Well, maybe I won’t get the poofy dress or the throng of tourists, but the tilt and the kiss?  Yes I do.  I do want that.

Just look at that stocking, the lace placed just so.  The tourist with the Prada purse is telling her friend it’s tacky.  I would love for my leg to look that graceful in lace all the while being tipped upside down.  And to be so loved I could wear tennies.

To be loved like that.

On the Seriousness of Tourists #9

Kiss me!

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I don’t care that someone’s fanny pack is jamming into my ass; I don’t care you insisted on those sunglasses that remind me of that douchebag I dated in college; I don’t care that we are in this throng of annoyed tourists watching a clock and waiting for The Walk of the Apostles.  I don’t care.  Kiss me. I want to have this picture to remind me of us the next time we bicker about who left the coffeepot on.

You are carrying my sun block, my water bottle, my two, no three, guidebooks that we both know all say the same thing.  Yet you don’t complain, and if you do, you make fun of me with that lovelook in your eyes.  This morning,  you let me eat half your croissant and then you got me another filled with chocolate.  When I said I was fat, you told me I wasn’t—even though I am.  You let me finish your coffee.  You drank the last of the water only because you know I hate the water left at the bottom of a bottle.  And you tell me I’m not neurotic!  You hugged me and cracked my back in that museum.  I really needed my back cracked, and I didn’t even have to ask.  You didn’t care who saw.  Now please, kiss me!  You are my love.