London calling

NOTE: I originally posted this entry last month, but then two of my blogosphere friends had some major shit happen and I didn't feel right being all "yay yay happy yay!" when they were having such a rough time. They're both so awesome that I know they wouldn't begrudge my happiness, but the timing was wrong and I felt like a total dick, so I made the entry private...

...until now!

(dun dun DUN)

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So G's parents will be celebrating their 50-year anniversary in a few months, and they've decided to spend it in London with family and friends. Because they are completely awesome, they invited me too.

My reaction upon hearing this news:





I mean, HOLY FUCKING SHIT Y'ALL. I've wanted to go to England since I was a mopey teenager listening to The Smiths and Soft Cell and wishing I could move to London or Birmingham or Manchester, where it was gray and rainy, just like my heart.

(Not to get all Hipster Kitty on you, but I was emo before emo was cool.)

England! Home to fashion and music and literature and cool old buildings! Land of Harrys both Potter and Prince! I am going to eat fish and chips out of a newspaper cone and Brannigans smoked ham and pickle crisps and deep fried Mars bars and a sausage roll! I am going to buy glossy magazines that I won't understand even though they're written in English because of all the slang and I'm going to buy underwear in Marks & Spencer and I am basically going to spend the whole trip goggling at everything and looking like a total hurrr durrrr tourist!

Now to make sure the universe doesn't even up the score by, I dunno, dropping an anvil on my head.