Darn it...

[SKIP THIS PART if you don't give a cow's doo doo to the ramblings of an Asian one and jump straight to the actual story]


I'm late in writing up a post...again


But that's just how I work. Procrastination is my forte and deadlines wet my pants, ergo I'm pleased to report my trousers are now appropriately damp.

Whenever I'm obligated to do something, I tend to over plan crazy-man-meticulously like one of those super-stressed brides to be you see on TV or the silver screen that ultimately end up tearing everyone's clothes off and shooting the entire chapel. What a scene. Then, after going through a thorough list of all the horrible things that can go wrong (E.g.: Nobody likes what I write. OR. I end up offending someone. OR. The men in black suits have finally read my blog and have come to take me away), I finally freak out and push the whole thing out of my head. Do something else. Watch paint dry. Roll around in an ant farm. Whatever.

But the harder I try to push the darn thing out of my head, the stronger it comes back to haunt me. It's like if someone came up to me, put a whopping plate of hot fudge brownies and told me not to eat them.

Wait, seriously?


So that's pretty much what happened when writing this post. It was supposed to be the second post to a two part narrative of my holiday in Krabi, Thailand. But I freaked out at the last minute,  and completely blanked - feeling bloody guilty the entire time I didn't touch the keyboard.


[HERE'S WHERE you jump straight to the actual blog post]


I met Vern and another man from Britain on the top of Tiger Cave. So at this part (Coinciding with the exact moment you yell "Whoa, back up a bit") I should probably explain who what where when and how. Firstly, Tiger cave mountain is this crazy (And i mean INSANE MUCHOS) mountain where you can reach the top via steps. And I'm not talking nice winding steps around the hill, I'm talking evil blocks of cement that reach to my knees vertically leading up to the crest.

There are 1327 steps in total, but before anyone goes "Aw heck, that can't be so bad" Remember. Remember... the steps of hell, man. Hell.

At first it doesn't seem like that big a deal. You know what? I think, this is pretty ok actually Or at least for the first thirty steps. Then I start panting, so to overcome that, I rush up the next hundred steps (They painted markers on every five steps. Now I don't know who exactly 'they' are, but hats off to them). Here's a tip: If for some crazy reason, you find yourself climbing 1300+ steps, the last thing you want to do is scramble up the first 100 and then crash. Of course you'll crash. Everyone always crashes.

IN my head, I'm going alright, ten more sets to go. Slow and steady...we learned that, right?

Yes Clarissa. We learned that.

After the four hundredth step marker, I've picked up a pretty steady pace. One that goes in junction to the tune of "Itsy bitsy spider" And the reason I know this is that I'm singing it over and over again in my head - occasionally out loud - like a crazed, maniacal mantra. Which must have been a sight to see: A sixteen year old girl with her bun half undone, sweat pouring down her white T-shirt, who just slipped out of her cargo pants into her shorts, and is muttering Itsy Bitsy spider under her breath and in between gasps for air.

I am not proud of this


So for those who noticed that I took off my cargos in favor of teeny weeny shorts in mid climb and are currently wondering WHAT?? I'd like to clarify that the shorts have, in fact, been under my cargos the whole time. And in a moment of desperation to unload the load on my already loaded thighs, I did a Super Man minus the telephone booth and in a mountain of spiritual holiness. On the bright side, my legs instantly felt like they were floating on air.

On the other hand, there's a fair chance of my ending up in eternal damnation.

By the fifth-hundredth marker though, all that feathery Happy Tree Friend lightness is nothing but a fond memory. I'm sweating even more than I thought I could; it looks like I'm trying to turn the mountain back into a salty blue ocean wannabe.  And then all of a sudden, it switches. Out of nowhere, it's abruptly a shorter distance to reach the top than it is to head back downwards and then I realize, that I never thought of turning around and heading back.


Truth. For all my whining and winging and and sweating and tuneless singing,  I don't actually give the idea of calling it quits much thought. And then before I know it, the six hundred steps transform themselves into seven hundred, and then eight hundred, which is all well and dandy, but by the time I reach my eight hundred and fiftieth mark, my legs feel more like dead meat being dragged uphill in a pointless excursion. I can practically feel my ribs vibrating from that hellish disco beat going on in my chest. It's like Jimmy Hendrick and Kiss crawled underneath my ribs and decided to have themselves a wee concert there.

Around me, though, is this incredible view of Thailand for as far as the eye can see. Everything looks so flat from up here, flat and square. Just like my wallet. The picturesque scenery isn't the whole thing; there's this cool mountain breeze that sorta takes most of the pain away. Like giving aspirin tablets to a patient undergoing cardiac surgery, it doesn't block the pain - hardly- but it sure numbs the ouch.

[So, apparently this post took a whole lot longer than I expected. I was planning to cut the whole thing short and serve up my edited, twitter length version for those twitter length attention spanned readers out there. But hell no. That'd be like mutiny of it's kind to something I love the most. It's ok if no one leaves a comment here - I realize - I'll just keep writing and writing, and if you want to read, well amigos, that's just your problem aint it?]