CAMP: Land of the flavoured toothpaste elections

Finally made it to America and I dont know what to write. I refuse this to be the type of travelouge that lays out with monotonous clarity every painful detail and then i did this and then i did that blah blah blah fishcakes. So excuse me if i miss bits i'm pretty sure you guys dont want to know how sweaty my balls got on the filght (lots) or how drunk i got at the airport out of sheer fucking boredom (lots). I am far more busy actally living this experiance to log it. But i know that without some sort of a log i am doomed to forget somethings and edit it all down to one big uber-memory.

Too overwhelmed for coherance, the journey here is a blur of arse numbness, jet-lag cheernes and people i will never meet again. needless to say i made it to orientaion, where i was shunted from one place to another filling out form and what not. although one person has stayed with me, like a dull bruise, his name is George (more about this one later).

As i write this, its about 10pm there time (i wonder how long it will take for this to become my time) i am sitting on plastic furniture on the porch on the grounds of the most basic, rural camps this side of the antartic, i am probley only here because my poor shell-shocked city brain is attaracted to the only lightbulb on, which has become to be a clumsy symbol of the civilistion i have left behind. And im in good company as, like, 47 billion fucking insects are also here doing there pointless bug fight/dance. There is probley a significant poetic point i could wrestle out of the situation, but quite frankly im tired of being bitten.