I returned home expecting the cloud of concern and disquiet of last year to have dissipated, restoring me to my regular excited-and-anxious-about-everything self, but instead I came home caring less about the need to worry.
My bucket 'o good ideas is as empty as it ever was, save for that one now-shrivelled nugget that was left out too long in the sun.
Unrelated: If I started writing about Thailand, I'd never stop, despite the fact that it's a topic already thoroughly covered on every bored, single, white girl's blog. Don't worry; the last thing I'm looking for on holiday is 'myself'. We went to a goddamn sky bar and loved it, for fuckssake.
I can see the appeal of becoming a travel writer. One of the safe ones that doesn't deal with the things you can't un-see that clash with your Western ideals. No bags of live [___] or small cages stuffed with [___] or all those godforsaken, begging amputees.
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