When drunk, I have a compulsive need to throw some of the things that happen to be in my hand, such clothes I took off, into the toilet. This need is not always followed by the need to flush.
You take a whole man glossy magazine - is there such a thing? - and I remember only that I’d better masturbate daily to save my prostate. Which one is wrong, the magazine or me?
Bucharest, December 2005
The cold makes the skin on my lower legs to itch. It could be a condition, or just a mental thing. Anyway I feel like a cabbage, under all this layers. Trying to feel sexy. It is more difficult in the winter. I am done with the bloody reporting, thanks god, I am left with my regular job related rants. The house is a mess, looking more and more like a grotto. Flakes of dust follow me floatingly whenever I move from here to there, navigating through the piles of clothes. These are cast away from the closet, which in its turn craves for reorganization. For the first time in a century I have been out dancing last night. And I am turning into a Christmas hater. I am avoiding emotions, but they haunt me guerrilla like. Loved “
Corpse Bride“.
I have been dreaming about correlation, among other things. I am working on this report, and that would be the explanation. Two things I hate about this season: evaluation and carols. I need to buy gloves. Tonight there is a pirate themed party, stay tuned for adventures.
The Moon is two white dots. Now this is the perfect example when empirical exercise sounds plain stupid.
A mackerel tart. You are what you eat, are you not?
So, what do you do when you have been invited to curry for eight and you somehow suddenly realize it is already eight thirty? You have nothing you want to wear, it is too cold outside to simply go naked, plus you don’t have the guts, and your car is farther than you can be expected to walk. I for one am tempted to hide inside the house, featuring an unlikely anti-social behavior.
My mind is as pseudo-fuked as my DVD drive. I wish I could fix the damn DVD.
Un certain regard
The road from Timisoara was hypnotic, up and down the hill, sun projecting the trees like steps into my tires’ way. For hours I literally felt like I had it all for myself. Or like I was in an American road movie. Candy frosting pink blue grey skies, heavy dark bitumen, a touch of mist in the hills and a kind sun doing us all one big favor. Too bad I cannot take pictures once I am behind the wheel. Craiova’s industrial park emerged like a transatlantic cruiser. In total opposition to the trip to Iasi and back, through a blinding sugar cotton fog. But in Iasi I smoked some shit and un-winded. Made the book I was planning to read into a Mos Nicolae present, and bought it back yesterday in Bucharest. I feel the end of the year approaching and that finally I am getting somewhere. Despite what many might thing I am getting closer and closer to a peace of mind. Bless you all.
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