
“English? Excuse me, English?” he insisted.
I continued to walk against the cold, cutting a path with my chin.
“English, English?” He has almost patted me on the back with these words, so I conceded. My look must have told everything, for he stopped being elliptical: “Do you speak English?”
“I do. I speak English, but I am not English”, I made it clear since I suspected he was on the prowl for rich Teutonic Caucasians. And I sooo fall out of this category, ’cause I am poor as a church mouse.
“Excuse me, are you gay?” That was a little blunt. And a little loud. As a matter of fact it was the bluntest confrontation about my sexuality. But nobody else seemed to care. I had only myself to blame for the whole thing as I have starded it by looking shamelessly back at him, back and staring him in the eye, and not shying away as most honourable people would do in the street.
“I am.” That didn’t come out right, I though, definitely not in the right voice. The wind, the cold, the running noise, the surprise, everything was a conspiracy to make me squeak like a little girl when all I wanted was to sound manly and dignified.
“Do you like business boys?” he continued undisturbed. Well, I guess it was my turn after all, so the strike came:
“No”.
He did not stumble, but on the inside, I was the only other person who could see it. For he was well trained at taking a no in this line of work. He must have seen a lot despite his very young age. He was as crispy as the temperature outside, nice blue eyes, a clear face, fair hair, and a cocky attitude to top it all.
“Simpatia?” he uttered a last unsuccessful linguistic crossbreeding. “I am OK”, I smiled back with all the warmth I could gather. I was not OK, I was kinda sad, thinking about him and why I had to say no. Sex is OK. Money is OK. Sex for money is not OK. I walked. Why is it always so crispy in Budapest when I visit?

or How the right outfit makes up for the young toned body and face I don’t have anymore
Her (to me): Babe, you are hot.
Him (has been working arduously until then being sucked into the computer screen, stops, gives the top to bottom screening look): Yes.
Me: grin (and I am thinking: Yes! They like me! and almost simultaneously: how come I feel so tired, discharged and ultimately old?!)
Sorry, no pics today.
Most dazzling conversations took place last night. So comedy of errors I am even considering writing a play.
Thoughts come and go, I am a railway station for thoughts. I have the facility, I run the show, but I don’t own the means and they never stay too long with me.
Yesterday’s calendar page read “Missed Christmas”, and today it says “The end of the road”. How perfectly depressing and alarmingly synchronized. It’s November. I am doing evaluations and I would rather do something intriguing, creative and fun. The perfect topping to that is Hallelujah by K. D. Lang.
Of course I knew my life is a black comedy, which was confirmed by
this test on blogthings.com
| The Movie Of Your Life Is A Black Comedy |
![]() In your life, things are so twisted that you just have to laugh. You may end up insane, but you’ll have fun on the way to the asylum. Your best movie matches: Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, American Psycho |
For instance, this morning I go to see my boss about a thing or two and she reads me the spam she has received. “There are many reasons for buying an electric chainsaw”. Are you thinking what I am thinking?