yes, 2011 can suck it. it being a bitch and bag of dicks, and a spackle of anus. spackle being a large herd or grouping of ani (anuses?).

ok, so it wasn’t all bad, just the tail-end, and it’s also the reason the tumbrling has ceased. I blame portugal. stupid stinky portugal. also I’m monumentally lazy. real talk.

the day started out like any other day, I wake up when the bus stops and pray for internet at the venue. there is, but you need to talk to a dickhole promoter, to get the password. you know, one of those people you can tell are total dickholes just by looking at them. that’s this guy. total fucking dickhole. king dickhole even.

the first thing I do with said password is look up starbucks. I know, I know, I’m in fucking lisbon! I should be looking up museums, or beautiful old churches, or some life changing shit. but top of my list of priorities is finding a goddamn starbucks. so I don’t have to hear about how we need to find a goddamn starbucks. my job as a tour manager is to (try to) care about these matters, and resolve them or live with incessant bitching. kicker is, incessant bitching never stops, it’s why it’s incessant really.

so, on my way back to the bus the glorious mocha frappucino lite in hand, I check out the zone a bit, looks pretty bitchin, so decide to come back later for making photographs.

I deliver the parcel, then head out again, plugging my computer in the front lounge so I have a full battery when the show begins, so I can attempt to avoid the army of punishers walk in that door, with social networking sites, celeb upskirt photos, and the sims. if you are a merch person or tour manager, you have the one worst, most highly punished occupations on tour.. and potentially earth. I am both. I am fluent in punishment. 

I grab my camera and walk back by the 20 people selling umbrellas at the train station, and back into the mall for some presents. I try to get a photo with santa, but the portuguese elf was less friendly than an elf has a right being.

so, regrettably, I head back into the starbucks (which after some time on the road, sadly, feels like home). as soon as I’m handed my stupid coffee drink, my phone rings. it’s josh, our spongy soundguy. it’s obvious after I pick up he’s not aware I’m on the line, or that he even wasted about 50 cents to call me. total sponge.

I hang up, and before I can even throw some sugar in my fancy coffee. I get anther call. from stefan. our overly-stressed, militant german bus driver.

“kristen, your computer was in the front lounge, yes?”

“uh, yeah.”

“we have problem.”

it must be said, that every time someone speaks those three words, “we have problem” it either means the tour bus has been broken into and all your shit has been stolen, or I couldn’t find an late night truck stop. there’s never any in between. it’s either “we have problem, you’re not going to make your flight back home.” or “we have problem, someone ate all the peanut butter.” they all say it with an identical accent, inflection exactly the same each time. and every time it really means “YOU have problem.”

at dinner with the rest of the band, that is exactly how the dickhole promoter said it, in between mouthfuls of steak.

“we have problem.”

takes a mouthul of steak. matt gets up from the table. 

“no, no. sit down. it ok. tour bus has been broken into”

another bite. chew. 

fucking unbelievable.

so, turns out some major chodes broke into the tour bus. they took my com-tar. not to mention three other computers, an ipod, and a passport. 

sitting at the police station in lisbon was unreal. I walk in to a small office, interrupting two women, one about 45, the other 80. they are chatting while looking at facebook. 

yes, really. the older bitch was pretty pissed I was interrupting her social networking. I could tell by the already permanent frowny face somehow becoming slightly more downturned. it was sort of impressive actually.

she left, and the middle ager starts typing in my information.

I admired her long nails and thought about how great I felt when I installed lo-jack for laptops on my computer, not realizing I didn’t pay an extra $10 for the premium package. ya know the one that basically replaces your computer when it’s stolen? yeah, who needs that when you can just wait for your computer to “connect to the internet” so it can be traced. I’ve come to grips with the fact that my computer has been stripped, sold for parts, and those nudie shots I sent to my boyfriend probably weren’t the best choice. but I’m no paris, so who really gives a shit.

luckily we were able to get our guitarist a new passport in marseille, after the day of hell I call trying to park a tour bus in marseille. (not just a clever name. after which we decided we’ll never go back to marseille, in fact, we should blow up all of france. I’ll reiterate here, bitching is first nature on the road.)

after that tour I realized, I wouldn’t be getting a computer for a long time. so, I fell into a deep depression that consists of sims mobile, marathon television, and m&m’s.

now, after a week long juice fast, a couple frightening turds, I’m feeling more like myself. and borrowing my gorgeous and well endowed boyfriends computer, so I’m finally done wallowing.

also I got rid of my tv. 2012 is about tough choices. good choices. and soft, clean bowel movements.