The Lair

I’ve filled in yet another PDF form required by random embassy interviewer for the privilege of visiting their country. That makes it the second form I’ve had to fill - not a big deal, you’d think. Only, I nearly didn’t notice that I needed to fill in this form. Because my age and gender fit a certain criteria, I need to provide an even more detailed accounting of my whereabouts for … the past decade. In a separate form. Because everyone who’s been in a terrorist training camp (as I clearly haven’t) rushes to fill in the empty white boxes on the form with that information.

Hold up a minute. I said the past decade. So, I have a reasonably good memory. Do you remember all your travels, dates of starting jobs and leaving jobs and random crap of that nature for the past 10 years? No, neither do I. So, I started the day stressed. And their rinky dink hi-tech PDF form doesn’t have enough room to fill in all the details they demand either. A separate sheet is required. The blood vessel which burst in my head on making this discovery started leaking into my eyeballs; giving them a weird red tinged hue. Apropos, really: because I’m a hairs breadth from going berserk, red eyes, frothy mouth and all. The repeated agonized tugging of my hair isn’t helping either, but it’s involuntary. Every time some lackwitted form filling fetishist makes his new requirements known, my hands spasmodically ascend hairwards.

And never mind that all interviews are by appointment only and they gave me an appointment date a mere two weeks before my supposed departure and their website has the gall to state that my category of visitor visa may require additional administrative processing and no definitive travel plans should be made. Aargh. Let me put it this way, if their administrative processing goes through as fast as a grease coated banana skin, I will probably be able to collect my passport on the way to the airport to catch my flight. Does this sound like the recipe for disaster to you? It sure as hell does to me. I’m visualizing rubber gloves and vaseline at the other end of the line when I land without a fucking visa. Obviously, the evil airline companies that insist on jacking up ticket prices ever higher on a daily basis aren’t helping much. I had a price quote printed out from yesterday - went to get a written quote today from the same agency and the price had magically gone up by 10 percent. Price gouging asstards.

And wait. There’s more. The goddamn embassy telephone number for scheduling appointments is more fucking expensive than a PHONE SEX line. I kid you not. Calling this embassy for an appointment is more expensive than having some hairy shemale with a husky voice croon sweet nothings in your ear. You’re getting virtually shafted in both cases, only the embassy hotline is of the red hot poker up the nether orifice variety. Assmunching rumprangers.

So, I was fuming and jumping through the visa requirement hoops for a country whose name should end in “-stan”, but doesn’t. And the inevitable thought rose like bile in my throat. Fuck this. Is a conference and a chance to press the flesh with people I’ve emailed for a few months really worth all this? Well, it sorta is - given which conference this is - but I calmed down.

I have now reached that state of zen which can best be described as “don’t give a flying fuck”. Give me a visa on time or not, dimwits. I care not. You may now fuck with my visa all you want, for I am full of zen.