Every day I find a cigarette in the same place in the girls bathroom, on the right hand side of the toilet. I have a suspicion it’s a Korean woman in my class who is never seen without a smoke in hand and yet I have never encountered her smoking outside the residence. Instead her incessant habit fills the hallway down to my room. She’s nice; she got hit by a car the other day and chipped her tooth. I greatly fear tooth injuries even more than I fear the prospect of a French dentist who would rattle off to me a bunch of stuff I don’t know and don’t need and then charge me for it. I am a furious anti dentite and it would cause me grievances because I’ve refused to get my wisdom teeth out for years now and I recently found out I can get a tooth implant for dirt cheap in Slovakia. I will not be the sole sponsor of my dentist’s next Mercedes.
I’ve been living as frugally as possible, which is very possible with the prospects of eating goat’s cheese for next to nothing and delicious mousse, buying my chicken from the same people every week and pointing to the nicest looking fruit. My only complaint is the price of curry sauce. The delightful Asian grocer at the market sells my favorite brand of spicy soup as well, the one that makes my nose run and my eyes bleed but I greedily gobble every week so that I don’t have nightmares about the dry, tasteless “salmon” I was served tonight. That was also the better end, many nights I just shake my head and make a roll with butter and have some yohgurt. I’ve been bored with the prospects of my writing, yet my writing callus is formidable and truly shows my love of longhand and writing with the pens I buy because my ink so frequently runs out. I was discussing burning books today and it overwhelmed me with such emotion. I don’t know why, I can hardly call myself a writer and nothing I plan to do has anything to do with writing (actually everything I secretly plan does but this is my thought bank and not my word bank. I won’t say it, but I can write it)-anyhow, the destruction of books if horrifying.
I’ve shifted gears and cant remember what my life was like in Canada except it sounds like a really fun story I read as a teenager when I was wishing and hoping for my “early 20’s” to be great. I’m jealous of the characters and can’t believe the stuff they get up to. Especially the part where she moves to France, that’s awesome.
Not really. I lie, it is and I’m spoiled and rude, at least a little bit by this country. I go to Prague on Saturday as a present to myself ( I wont say which kind) and I am looking forward to partaking in a city that doesn’t glare and in a language that doesn’t judge so much. Actually every language does with its distinct dialects but I am tired of being ridiculed by my French teacher for saying “snob” words.
I go through many questionable moments of self doubt and my radio never seems to be in tune, I walk everywhere because I don’t want to bother paying for the bus when it could pay for candy and chocolate instead. I get excited about the future and yet horrible worried about my worries and I feel like the clock is just ticking and my clock emits the most horrible light during the night that always scares me when I forget to turn it away. Some nights I fall asleep in my clothes and some nights I forget to shut the window and I freeze quietly instead of doing something about it.
This is the first evidence of my real existence, and yet it feels terrible false and I look forward to being in the presence of people that bring out good in me.
Oh good golly.
My favorite adjectives are the negative kind, and I thoroughly enjoy using negative adjectives in a positive way.