I need help. I suffer horribly. I torture my family, I’m desperate.
I’m dying although I’m perfectly healthy. I never have colds, and my dentist cries like a baby when he sees my flawless teeth. I have the resting heart rate of Martina Navratilova and my abdominals were featured on the cover of Shape magazine. I do a hundred squats and sixty dead lifts every morning. I eat organic, but Wanderlust is eating me from inside like cancer.
Let me give you a little background. Travel is in my blood. When you think about it, it all started when one restless couple was exiled from an exotic tropical resort called Eden to a correctional facility called Earth. Their even more restless offspring kept marching between Egypt and Palestine in a rather confusing manner. Apparently, that wasn’t a long enough trip so next generations moved to Europe, where they were periodically chased from one country to another. Eventually, the most impractical group settled in Russia, a swampy place with disgusting climate and unstable social situation. I was conceived on the Trans-Siberian express, and was born in a desolate town called Vyborg while my mother was cross-country skiing.