DONNELLY: The perils of the abroad blog

There is a handful of soiled ‘Space Jam’ onesies decaying in the Goodwill front window. It is fall, and Halloween approaches.

And with the discount treasures of late fall comes the fate of your collegiate abroad experience. The Andes? Southern Seas? Each is incomplete without evidence of your inner emotional turmoil.

Mine began about 10 minutes into an episode of ‘The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien’ in January when guest Sarah Chalke from ‘Scrubs’ started screaming German obscenities and sharing pictures of her husband in Egyptian women’s clothing. However intrigued I might have been, I opted to abandon my prospects and venture into foreign waters.

I was headed to Dublin in the morning for four long months, and while every fiber of my being screamed out in contention as my hands shakily met my computer’s keyboard, I powered through and clicked on the ‘more’ drop-down tab in a new Google window.

Then, I clicked on ‘blogs.’ Then, I got confused because ‘blogs’ means other people’s blogs and is not itself a wizard to start your own blog. That option, strangely, is somewhere under the haze of ‘My Account.’ Then, I accidentally clicked on ‘Web History’ and wondered why I searched for ‘enchildadaaaaaaaa987$# jailbait’ on April 13, 2008.

Eventually, I found the page I meant to find, but the one I feared the most. I was embarking upon a journey I had pledged to never start. I was creating an abroad blog.

Let’s face it ‘- we, as a generation, have rightfully earned a badge of non-intellect. I’m sure you can think of a friend off-hand who could draw literary parallels between Zac Efron’s curvy bang swoop and the devastation of a desolate Auschwitz. Admit it.

And it’s not that declarations of ‘OMG vegemite is so yuckyyy’ don’t totally thrill and inspire me, but I couldn’t rid the lingering fear that a sample of my potential entry on the Irish Troubles would end up in a textbook 50 years from now under a chapter surrounding the deconstruction of language. (BTW, The Famine? Teeeeeeear.)

So, to avoid a diagnosis with Idiot Blogger Syndrome, I did what any cowardly new online author would do, and I opted to express my findings and feelings as hypothetical, grandiose fiction.

My first entry? Packing.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Theoretically, it doesn’t sound substantive enough to warrant an entry. Alas, I opted to justify my sloth, vilify my giant Fila duffle bag and concoct a dramatic interpretation of my non-strife:

The embittered and unpacked rolls into the middle of the family room. On a neighboring couch, my cat sleeps quietly. Ranch Bugles are scattered across the carpet, and while I peacefully peck away at the keyboard, facing the kitchen, the walls quietly rumble around me with the buzz of a heater surge.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Mmmmm, hey Matt,’ my enemy will hiss in an all-too entitled tone. He’ll inch closer.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Why don’t you go ahead and throw all your crap into me? C’mon, just do it. I’m spacious and have ample room for your belongings. Oh, yeah.’

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ It taunts me with the sheen of its zippers and an almost-opaque plastic travel caddy. Oh, OK, bag ‘- like I have some inherent familiarity with ornate voyage accessories. I’m still considering storing my toothbrush in a pant leg if it proves to be space-effective. Presumptuous jerk.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘NEVER!’ I suddenly recoil, ‘SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!’ I jump to my feet, kick over a chair and clench my jaw while I turn to face the transit demon. My eyes enkindle and rage. I approach, and my stride is slow and calculated, but each step is taken with savage conviction.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Slyly, I distract it by fingering the corners of its small toiletries insert. I sneak attack upthrust kick it into the vacant fireplace.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘Oh, God!’ it screams as I trap it behind a mesh-chain facade. ‘Help me! Oh, please!’

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘You’ll need plenty of help where you’re going,’ I insist, glaring. ‘WHICH IS TO HELL, IF YOU WEREN’T TOTALLY SURE OF THE IMPLICATION.’

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ Sensing my desperation, the chimney flue cooperatively bursts open, matches sacrifice themselves to readied maple logs and I cackle menacingly as I watch the enemy burn.

‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ My cat gets scared and runs away, though. I throw a can of pennies at its heels so it will make it all the way up the stairs and I can wallow in a collapsed mess of shot nerves, alone. (Interim note: Sarah Chalke is hilarious. She really kept Conan on his toes. Potato-shaped marzipan candies? What a hoot!)

‘ Notwithstanding the fact that I have no memories of my travels or lasting knowledge of the Emerald Isle, I’m content with my decision. The year 2012 is looming, so it’s not like I’ll have kids to share my stories with, anyway.