I’m still not quite sure I can believe what happened last night but I’m walking around the hostel with a stupid grin on my face. You’d have thought Liverpool had won the league, I’d had an all night sex marathon with Zooey Deschanel and Eva Green, and red aniseed balls were on sale again at the corner store down the road. Life felt pretty damn good. I’ve never had so many high fives. I felt like a varsity American football jock whose girlfriend had given him a whipped cream bikini. It was only a kiss.
I’m starting to make plans to move on. Although Lima has been very good to me these past few days, my liver doesn’t share the sentiment, and tomorrow is May 1st. Just over two months to get round what else I want to see in South America before I’m Europe bound. If I spend much more time wasting away on the couch, I’ll waste away on the couch. As tempting as it is to stay here until the weekend, the time has come to search for new pastures. By pastures I mean sand dunes.
Today however, is apparently Dutch queen day, or something. I know this only because of the poster that says ‘Dutch queen day’, and the hostel bar littered with orange balloons. I’m still tapping away on the laptop at around 11pm in my room, but within a couple of minutes of being pestered by girls to join the shenanigans, I’m once again getting out of my gourd. Then things take a turn for the hotter.
I’ve contemplated describing what happened in great detail, staying true to my ethos of total honesty, but with the events of the passed few days coupled with my recent form, I’ve decided it best to simply deny all accusations and merely speculate as to my whereabouts and events of the next couple of hours. This is for two reasons:
1. Nobody likes a smug bastard
2. I think I’m in love
Perhaps when I come to write a book about this journey I will be free to divulge as much information as I like, with no care for the consequences. Of course nothing could have happened at all and I’m merely penning suggestive fiction; dear reader; because I have sod all to write, squeezed from the fruits of yet another messy evening. You’ll never know.
Shower
I’m still not quite sure I can believe what happened last night but I’m walking around the hostel with a stupid grin on my face. You’d have thought Liverpool had won the league, I’d had an all night sex marathon with Zooey Deschanel and Eva Green, and red aniseed balls were on sale again at the corner store down the road. Life felt pretty damn good. I’ve never had so many high fives. I felt like a varsity American football jock whose girlfriend had given him a whipped cream bikini. It was only a kiss.
I’m starting to make plans to move on. Although Lima has been very good to me these past few days, my liver doesn’t share the sentiment, and tomorrow is May 1st. Just over two months to get round what else I want to see in South America before I’m Europe bound. If I spend much more time wasting away on the couch, I’ll waste away on the couch. As tempting as it is to stay here until the weekend, the time has come to search for new pastures. By pastures I mean sand dunes.
Today however, is apparently Dutch queen day, or something. I know this only because of the poster that says ‘Dutch queen day’, and the hostel bar littered with orange balloons. I’m still tapping away on the laptop at around 11pm in my room, but within a couple of minutes of being pestered by girls to join the shenanigans, I’m once again getting out of my gourd. Then things take a turn for the hotter.
I’ve contemplated describing what happened in great detail, staying true to my ethos of total honesty, but with the events of the passed few days coupled with my recent form, I’ve decided it best to simply deny all accusations and merely speculate as to my whereabouts and events of the next couple of hours. This is for two reasons:
1. Nobody likes a smug bastard
2. I think I’m in love
Perhaps when I come to write a book about this journey I will be free to divulge as much information as I like, with no care for the consequences. Of course nothing could have happened at all and I’m merely penning suggestive fiction; dear reader; because I have sod all to write, squeezed from the fruits of yet another messy evening. You’ll never know.
(Incidentally that love part is poetic license).