I don't know why I feel like I have so much to write about these days. It seems as if I keep writing each and every day, about things that aren't really important, yet I can't get away from the feeling I need to get it out of my system. So in this quality vs. quantity imbalance I can only beg you to have patience with the rubbish in wait for the good stuff.
There will be good stuff. I promise. Some day.
As for today, the gossip is scarce. I just got home from a night on my own downtown. It became a very short night downtown when I only had time to enter the Fox and Anchor before two men well over forty had approached me and the other two places I stopped by were poplulated by - what seemed to be - children.
When - WHEN - did all the bars become populated by kids?
After the third place I gave up and took a cab home. All in all I ended up paying $30 for a beer and a drink.
And I find myself missing Robin, and wishing he was here to invite me over for a movie. The warmth of another set of skin next to mine, the comfort of a smile in the darkness.
Back home again, with Muse dancing across the room, I am thinking of picking up Endgame again, the literature about Srebrenica I have set myself to read before Tuesday. Bosnia is getting closer, and I still have no idea how to best present the background for the massacre of Srebrenica in the best possible manner in a bus with dubious equipment early in the morning to fifty tired cadettes.
I must also muster the energy to get up and wash off the make up I put on before I went out. Such a small project seems so unachievable at this time in the morning.
As the alcohol is slowly setting in my body and, most of all, my brain, I realize that it is for the best that I conclude this post here before I write something I would regret or simply just be ashamed of tomorrow.
There will be good stuff. I promise. Some day.
As for today, the gossip is scarce. I just got home from a night on my own downtown. It became a very short night downtown when I only had time to enter the Fox and Anchor before two men well over forty had approached me and the other two places I stopped by were poplulated by - what seemed to be - children.
When - WHEN - did all the bars become populated by kids?
After the third place I gave up and took a cab home. All in all I ended up paying $30 for a beer and a drink.
And I find myself missing Robin, and wishing he was here to invite me over for a movie. The warmth of another set of skin next to mine, the comfort of a smile in the darkness.
Back home again, with Muse dancing across the room, I am thinking of picking up Endgame again, the literature about Srebrenica I have set myself to read before Tuesday. Bosnia is getting closer, and I still have no idea how to best present the background for the massacre of Srebrenica in the best possible manner in a bus with dubious equipment early in the morning to fifty tired cadettes.
I must also muster the energy to get up and wash off the make up I put on before I went out. Such a small project seems so unachievable at this time in the morning.
As the alcohol is slowly setting in my body and, most of all, my brain, I realize that it is for the best that I conclude this post here before I write something I would regret or simply just be ashamed of tomorrow.
I was told that my statements were brilliant, I replied, This is all true, as I am as brilliant as the Princess cut.
What I say has got to be worth something, especially if my book is to work out. I talk a lot, just do not always have people to talk to. End up talking a lot of shit.
I am writing you! Fair warning.