I know, and you know, that I would never write something like this without having some other something up my sleeve. You can't go around telling people reality's overrated unless you're willing to put your money where your mouth is. Even I, with my dim social awareness, know this to be true.
Well, how's $1274 sound? That's the cost of my flight to seismically dubious and stylistically sensational SF via the bubbling mud pits, fuming vents, and effervescent geysers of Rotorua. That's the cost of fantasy. That's a small portion of the price of freedom. That's the plan.
To be honest with you, this is just the cranking up a notch of my continual restlessness. I won't be on holiday—I'll be working while I'm gone. I will drink fantastical cocktails at every opportunity, but I'll also be tied to reality via email, deadlines, and deliverables.
Still, it's far, far better than nothing. I have a few other tricks up my ample sleeves, but this seems enough for now.
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