I used to travel a lot.

Not any type of fancy travel, or even out of the country travel. But I was on airplanes every few weeks, flying all over this place and living like a damn peasant for it.

The last flight I took was in April. I flew from Nashville back to Los Angeles to spend exactly 36 hours with Brad. My flight was $800 round trip. Prior to that specific flight, I had been doing that same exact thing every two weeks, beginning in February. For those three months, it was retarded. I was flying all the damn time to the same damn place. But I was an expert traveler at that point, knew how to navigate airport lines and how to pack a single backpack with too many clothes.

I have not flown since that April flight, which is saying something.

You guys might not believe this, but tomorrow, after getting both my hair and my nails done, I'm being flown on a private jet to stay in a penthouse suite with my own butler service and on-call shrimps and eggs and champagnes and boozes and whatever-I-wants.

Honestly? There have been tremendous ups and downs over the last few years. I've been low as they come. I've been unemployed, was forced to move back in with my parents in my hometown, hated by an entire group of people in a Southern metropolis, lost a job opportunity because of this blog, lost my best friend to Twitter, watched all of my grandparents die, and seriously considered finding a way to get myself to die and to be honest? Like, really honestly? 

I've worked so hard for this moment.

I wouldn't be surprised if this is how I go. One final weekend of A-list treatment and I wind up dead in a ditch. I'm cool with it, but please don't release this URL to my parents or the news. Let's just leave it between you and me, Internet stranger.