We made love and dumplings, fried and boiled. I got lost into his cuteness. And we watched Kathy Griffin’s My life on D list. I slept a lot, most of which into his arms, and he in mine. I have also cleaned his keyboard, teased him about that and loved him nevertheless.
During the weekends I feel loved, surrounded by friends and their attention, I get presents, I get to smile and do little silly things, like coming early in your arms, going to the movies, making the “lip face” like you.
During the week days I feel incompetent, overwhelmed, depressed, I lack interest, which in turn makes me less interesting, and that is my reason to be.
I might be dependent. The drug of my choice? You.
Should you cry or should you laugh when your boyfriend calls you that?
* Hamlet, you know, the crazy guy
When you’re born you’re zero years old. Then you turn one year old. Therefore the birthday celebrates the year that has passed, not the one that’s coming. Maybe this is, sometime, the annoying thing with birthdays. They measure what’s gone. In other words I have been 34 the entire year behind me. I didn’t have a problem with 33, 30 was fine. At 25 I took pride in being a quarter of a century into the world. So what do I make of 34? Maybe like they do in buildings and planes, when they skip 13. 34 can be my 13. By the way, I don’t have a problem with 13. So, it’s settled then. I am going on 35.
I am writing about this because I had the worse sleep last night, hot flashes and all. For the first time I have heard my neighbour’s bed screeching. How awkward is that?! And pretty much all the noises going around in my block of flats. Veve’s called just as I managed to fall asleep, and the ring scared the living light out of me. She was having a beer in my honour. Thank you 
Plus the spoilers. It looks like a lot of people were afraid to miss my birthday and I kept receiving happy birthday wishes in advance. Oh well, I will try to live deal with it.
As for my new life, I have set my alarm for seven and woke up at six. A.M. Without it. Is that a sign or what?
In other news, the best present has just woke up and kissed me. I am happy.
We talked about dreadlocks. It was purely fictional.
Oh, that’s nothing like getting nowhere fast. I knew exactly where I was headed, to see my boyfriend. The only thing that prevented me from getting there was the 3 kilometers line of cars on both lanes at the exit from our magnificent highway to Pitesti, the first highway of our beautiful but inhabited dumb country. Three hours on a 100 kilometer highway! Driving in Romania sucks increasingly. Police mostly seat on their ass. They don’t even have doughnuts. Common sense is science fiction. Drivers are impolite, to use an euphemism. And roadworks are omnipresent and frozen. After being stuck on the highway, where I made friends with the dog featured in the picture, by the way, what is a dog doing on the highway anyway?! I was stuck at the eternal traffic light where part of the road is literally going down the drain, so, instead of immediately consolidating what’s left, they simply shut down one lane, turning a two way street into an alternating one way. I lost count of road accidents and police cars and ambulances, there were at least two major catastrophes. Do I wonder, with all the BMW drivers driving up my ass over legal speed limit? Like way over speed limit. Now I DO drive over speed limit. I also try to use my brains. Or with the “king of the road” Logans? I won’t even go into the stuff I have actually seen secured strapped on the roof of various vehicles. I would start a collection if that wouldn’t be dangerous, taking pictures while driving that is.
Finally, our correspondent is happily reporting from Medias. At the end of a seven hour drive that takes about four hours on a good day. The things I do for love.
I almost forgot. After the highway of deadly boredom and wait, I have been driving behind a truck through Svaitzerland. Svaitzerland is pretty similar to Elbonia, only the cracks and holes go deeper.
Like instead of me? Like call Romer!can. Like write a post on how outraged I am about the lack of promotion for GayFest (that starts tomorrow). Like ask Mazi why she switched her blog to private. Like how much I enjoy listening to Kenneth Bager.
I am overwhelmed. I have also had an almost near death allergy situation this morning. Send me your money and good wishes. Thank you.
LATER EDIT: The ill repute Windows/Picasa habits die hard. I am still fighting, but it’s both frustrating and funny to post a picture the size of the above. I promise to get better real soon.
What a day! It turns out we are TB free. And the package was delivered.
Sleeping next you that afternoon was as good as talking to you.
Relax, nobody gets hurt. That’s mostly around myself. Take yesterday, for instance. The moment I got out of the house, I caught a little fly between my eyelids. Isn’t that special?! OK, OK, it was my righ eye, but still. Thirty minutes, a panic attack, two pharmacies, and half a bottle of eye wash later I have managed to remove the little thing. It has not survived the above mentioned hardships. Do you know the joke with the crocodile tamer and the blonde? Yeah, that’s how I felt, only nostrils dried from the antihistamines.
In other unrelated news, I have been to the bookshop. That’s the thief of my heart, now that the boyfriend is in the mountains. Buying books, underline buy, not read, makes me feel intellectual. Of course, at a cost. Also being the gay I am I have bought Madonna’s latest. And Lenny Kravitz’s. Tell you what, you wannabe DJs, these two don’t go together, not for the time being, I’ve tried.
And now off to work, celebrating by doing this Labour Day.
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