I would say I’ve been unfaithful, but that would mean I was writing on some other blog and that isn’t it, that isn’t it at all.
I always feel strange when I return, suitcases in hand. I’ve never been so far before. Is that true, exactly, or just how I feel? I can’t tell. I can’t tell if I’m returning triumphantly or with my tail between my legs, and isn’t it all subjective, after all, and don’t all my adventures take on the flavour and texture of a dream, isolated from where they took place?
And then there are the adventures, the experiences that will always seem like dreams, no matter where one stands.
I’m back, for whatever it’s worth, for however long it lasts – and whomever I actually am, nowdays.
I could live on vacation forever – I mean, if there were a way to extend this into a permanent way of life, I would excel at the occupation.
As far as I can tell all it entails is drinking far too much coffee and watching nouvelle vague films. There may be the occasional deep existential thought tornado involved, but nothing more coffee can’t fix.
The degree to which I am sick with a stomach virus is directly inverse to the amount of generosity I can summon. For the children? Oh come on they’re children, I didn’t say I became an ogre. For their parents?
I feel like a southerner of the bad dental hygiene variety when someone approaches his porch.
Probably my number one advice to would-be suitors would be to not quote Oscar Wilde out of context. To me, specifically. Paraphrasing is even more, shall we say, frowned upon.
Especially – I’m looking at you, guy who has no idea this blog exists or otherwise would plagiarize it – if between the puffs of cigarette smoke you blow on my face as seduction, you happen to mention that you’ve never read Wilde outside of his quotes. Do not raise your eyebrow after such an utterance.
I’m also looking at you, guy who doesn’t read anything on the Internet except porn – wait, sorry, guy who reads nothing on the Internet – because mocking my love of Wilde by asking if he were some new hotshot hipster writer with a beard made me die, a little inside, right there in the passenger side of your sport utility vehicle.
In essence – well, in essence you should already have said something better. You should have said something you thought of yourself.
“What are you looking at?” I asked him at length, seeing the slight curve of a smile and the attentive hand-on-chin. “I like listening to you,” he said softly. “I like the tone and inflections of your voice, ”
“Even though it’s deep?” I interjected.
“I hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t really ascribed any qualities to it, per se. I just like the inflections, the way – you know, it seems to be some sort of an epidemic among girls, to end sentences with an upward lilt, as if they were asking a question. Have you heard that?”
Oh tiger, I’ve heard everything, I thought, and smiled.
If I had more money, I’d spend it well. I would not spend it on idiotic things like bling and cars. I’d travel. More money? I’d buy a cheap, functional apartment outright so I’d never have to go through the terror of making rent. Yet more money? Well, I’d start an orphanage.