Some years ago, I got to finally live my lifelong dream of going to Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida.
I was horrified.
I knew the place was going to be blandly generic, but it didn’t know it was going to be that blandly generic.
And I had no idea you had to choose from four theme parks, each one with separate admission. I blindly assumed you got to see them all (especially since I was comped!).
My friends were begging for Epcot, but I insisted on the Magic Kingdom, knowing that was just the kind of glitzy fantasyland for my tired ass.
But it was boring, kids.
There were lines filled with icky-looking families.
Plus there weren’t that many rides I could go on (since I hate anything that drops), so as three-year-olds excitedly lined up for roller coasters, I stood and watched in terror!
And there was no momentum to the day, as we just kind of strolled around from non-activity to non-activity.
Even the wandering Disney characters seemed not that into it, no doubt hawking screenplays on the side.
I probably should have gone on Space Mountain, just so I wouldn’t have left with such a blank expression.
Actually I wouldn’t have left at all — I would surely have croaked, enabling my remains to join Walt’s in the cryogenic castle.