Letters To Stina

Hi Stina!

You, of course, know who I am. But I have the sneaking suspicion that, this being the internet, somebody else is going to stumble across this conglomeration of nonsense and need a little bit of an introduction. So here we go.

My name is Leonardo de Caprio, or L. de Caps if you so prefer. People always find me in the white pages, call me up, and ask me if I’m Leonardo DiCaprio, which I am most definitely not. He spells his name with an ‘I’, and mine is with an ‘E’, so clearly the illiteracy epidemic is reaching new highs. There’s not remotely a physical resemblance. Look, I’ll even put in a picture of myself:

Swag.

Leonardo DiCaprio can suck my dick.
Do I even have a dick?
Hmm, apparently not.
I’m a six-inch long plastic dinosaur, why would I have a dick?
Anyway. My dick is metaphorical. Leonardo DiCaprio can suck it.
Consider your introduction to me complete.

The plane rides were completely uneventful. We didn’t crash and nobody had to use the oxygen masks, which I’m not sure anyone would even know how to operate, since nobody pays attention to those stupid videos. If the plane were to actually crash, everyone would be more “HOLY FUCKING SHIT THE PLANE IS FUCKING GOING TO CRASH MOTHER FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT FUCK DAMN PISS HELL I’M GOING TO DIE IN A PLANE IN MY SWEATPANTS WITH COMPLIMENTARY SNACKS THIS WAS NOT THE PLAN” and less “Now let’s remember the steps from the instructional video! Everybody, masks on! No, no, not the children. They come second, remember.”. But maybe that’s just me.

Then I got to France and my baggage was SOAKED because apparently in Iceland they leave your baggage on the tarmac in the rain. Actually, that probably wasn’t a bad thing. Why? Because everything I saw in my 45-minute stint in Iceland was pristine. The airport bathrooms were impossibly sterile. Do you know how hard it is to clean up after a bunch of travellers who haven’t peed for the entire nine-hour flight and then insist on doing crap like brushing their teeth and putting on an entire face of makeup to impress their relatives they haven’t seen for ages and don’t even particularly care about? Extremely. Hell, even cleaning up after someone eats a meal makes me want to jump in a vat of Clorox.

The tarmac probably gets bleach-cleaned on a regular basis.

I got picked up from the airport by two members of my lovely French Adoptive Family (let’s call them FAF. Like the RAF. But without planes.) and promptly went to Montmartre, in Paris. Technically, at least. To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember all too much about it, except that it was hot and I changed in the car and there was a fire somewhere in Paris and we went into the church and you could see all of the city and we passed these guys twice who kept singing “Toi et Moi” and it was good. I don’t actually remember how time worked that day, so let’s not try to do details.

On serait juste toi et moi
Près d’ici ou la bas
Sans règles dignes, sans foi
Quand tu veut on y va
Toutes les couleurs du ciel
Plein de bouteilles
Du rhum du vin du miel
Quand tu veux on y va

Swag Swag,
L. de Caps