After approximately two months of waiting, I finally received my home internet connection today!
I wish someone were around to take care of me; I feel really sick.
Accidentally leaving my 3 mW phone on during the flight didn’t mess with the plane’s navigation system or cause it to crash!
Scratching the surface
Just peeking out, it’s hard to miss the characteristically cheery vocal intonation and the sudden dearth of distinctive facial features—I must be back in Scandinavia!
It appears I’ve returned home in one piece (accidentally leaving my 3 mW phone on during the flight didn’t mess with the plane’s navigation system or cause it to crash!) after weathering a week in Paris. I chose to go with the verb “weathered” because the entire experience—while admittedly exciting—was remarkably draining. Intellectually, I had much to do there which kept me occupied for a large chunk of my time. I spent the rest gallivanting between the usual tourist spots and tagging along with friendly locals to some of the more intimate nooks hidden-away in the city. Apart from a couple of exquisite pieces at the museums, it was getting to experience these little gems—the tiny, crowded pubs heavy on the attitude and the atmosphere-rich cafés that were the highlight of my trip.
All in all, I have to admit that good times were had. It’s just, since there’s still so much to see and experience, I’m going to have to plan multiple trips back if I ever intend on scratching beneath the surface. Some months just for soaking in the plethora of art, another couple for relishing the various shows, even more for sampling the variety of local fare, … I clearly enjoy places rich in history, culture and character (even if the locals aren’t the friendliest when you first get to meet them).
I better start saving if I ever intend on pulling this off. And I also have to start spacing things out a little better. This past week, each of my days began 7ish in the morn and proceeded until 3–4 the subsequent morn. I’m barely able to stay up as I write this; I really need to get some sleep.
Boy am I fucking old.
Stop pronouncing half the letters in every word and most languages begin to sound more sophisticated.
Not even a week in France and I don’t think I can return to plain, unsparkley water ever again.
Twixt my nethers
I could’ve sworn I had some money in Euro lying around the house. I seem to remember exchanging a lot more currency than I ended up needing during my last trip to Germany, but perhaps I’m just misremembering things. Either that, or I’ve lost a bunch of bank notes during the move to my new apartment. Anyway, it’s not like they don’t have ATMs in Paris, which is where I’m spending this week. I reckon it’s going to be interesting—my mom sent me a long list of her favourite places there which she insists I not miss—but more on that later as events warrant it. We now have bigger fish to fry.
As I run around my home tossing things into my trusty campers’ backpack a few hours before my flight, my mind keeps returning to the events of last night. There she was, pressed up to me whispering in my ear even though the obnoxiously loud music in the club had long since given way to much softer and more relaxed background fare. Her slinky cocktail dress which exquisitely accentuated her delicate form did little to sheath the warmth of her body. I remember being transfixed by the way her tongue-piercing glistened under the subdued lights as her mouth moved, and struggling to string coherent sentences together as I drowned in her intoxicating perfume; but her frequent giggles and pouty smiles seemed to suggest I was doing something right.
It took much of the night, but I was finally beginning to feel relaxed and not completely out of my element. Without the blaring music and the smoke, my system wasn’t on constant sensory overload (at least, not the kind that bothered me!) and the setting quickly became a lot more intimate. It stayed that way for a long while—until it eventually evaporated; an inevitability I was bracing myself for the entire time.
I amn’t going to discuss details, but I believe I do need to take up some form of dance lessons. Not for improving the gracefulness of my movements, but to prevent me from getting petrified and retreating into a shell (not to mention arguing to defend my pitiful chickenhood) when being pushed to.
As I sit here amidst this scattering of paper I rummaged through to look for my Euros for the trip, I can’t help but glance at their contents. Much of them are unfinished journal entries over the years, many of which are desperate pleas and pointless grousing, a sizable chunk serving to highlight the complete history of my sexual failures. I seem to be doing the same things over and over expecting dramatic changes in my life. But the events of last evening, this stack of memories strewn about, everything, points to how absurd a notion that is. If I want my situation to change, I need to change too.
First stop, manning up and signing up for dance lessons. For a while now I ain’t had nothin’ twixt my nethers weren’t run on batteries.
I have this formal shindig to attend later this evening. Boy am I glad someone pre-tied a bunch of ties for me before I left Ann Arbor.
When attempting to format your drive before installing Mac OS X, the installer only gives you two options. One of which doesn’t work.
Step out onto the snowy streets right after a shower and your damp hair will be frozen by the time you reach your destination.
With enough volumising conditioner and subtle combing-over, you can convince most people you’re not bald; at least until you’re 30. I hope.
I can now stand at a corner there and hum really softly—until it soon builds into this rich, booming crescendo. People were not amused.
My incessant humming led me to stumble across a resonant frequency at a passageway at one section of a subway station.
If I had to pick between security and liberty, I’d pick liberty every single time. I hope my country acts wisely at this critical juncture.
I awoke from a weird dream (at 4 a.m.) with an overwhelming urge to check if I was capable of washing my feet at my sink. I can.