Well that’s it then. Summer is officially over. The weirdos have been arriving in the hostels. Scotland has suffered a referendum defeat, robbed of hope and a bright future by the BBC and the over 55’s. The hangover set to last for a number of years. I’m still in Sofia, hiding away from the rest of the hostel due to yet another epic cold sore, and I’m shaking like I’ve got Parkinson’s. A palpable feeling of a serious anti climax abounds. I’d murder for a beautiful woman to make me chicken soup and play an X-box, if only to drag me kicking and screaming out of this melancholy.
I’ve been leading the pub crawls here on occasion in exchange for a free stay, so the past few days have been, for want of better words, really messy. They’ve also been awesome, as a direct result of yours truly going through something of a purple patch and finding plenty of those little hostel ‘families’ I do so enjoy, as well as building something of a rapport with the local trangender prostitutes. They’ve revelled in donning me with lipstick and make up for photographs. And then I’m surprised when I develop a mini volcano on my lip. Alas pride comes before a fall, and so here I suffer, laid up until I can get back in the game. I’m actually often thankful when something like this strikes me down, as it forces me to stop smashing back the sauce. I’m at my healthiest when I’m ill.
So the alarm bells have been ringing for some time, and I must away to pastures new. Or old. Something is a foot, and plans are in place to break free from my vices, in a special locale. I will say no more at this present time, but I’m hoping for a peaceful, calm winter, hidden away from the rest of the world and people who piss me off. There to lick my wounds and better myself, treating years of self-abuse and misanthropy. Come out clean on the other side, back on track, and leading the life I’ve misplaced somewhere around here, lost in a deluge of sex, booze and drugs. Oh I know dear readers I’ve been something of a broken record. But I’m sickening myself, and my hedonistic days are numbered. A winter of content; at least until that glorious, glorious summer in Eastern Europe. Then I can ruin everything all over again.
Wake me up when September ends
Well that’s it then. Summer is officially over. The weirdos have been arriving in the hostels. Scotland has suffered a referendum defeat, robbed of hope and a bright future by the BBC and the over 55’s. The hangover set to last for a number of years. I’m still in Sofia, hiding away from the rest of the hostel due to yet another epic cold sore, and I’m shaking like I’ve got Parkinson’s. A palpable feeling of a serious anti climax abounds. I’d murder for a beautiful woman to make me chicken soup and play an X-box, if only to drag me kicking and screaming out of this melancholy.
I’ve been leading the pub crawls here on occasion in exchange for a free stay, so the past few days have been, for want of better words, really messy. They’ve also been awesome, as a direct result of yours truly going through something of a purple patch and finding plenty of those little hostel ‘families’ I do so enjoy, as well as building something of a rapport with the local trangender prostitutes. They’ve revelled in donning me with lipstick and make up for photographs. And then I’m surprised when I develop a mini volcano on my lip. Alas pride comes before a fall, and so here I suffer, laid up until I can get back in the game. I’m actually often thankful when something like this strikes me down, as it forces me to stop smashing back the sauce. I’m at my healthiest when I’m ill.
So the alarm bells have been ringing for some time, and I must away to pastures new. Or old. Something is a foot, and plans are in place to break free from my vices, in a special locale. I will say no more at this present time, but I’m hoping for a peaceful, calm winter, hidden away from the rest of the world and people who piss me off. There to lick my wounds and better myself, treating years of self-abuse and misanthropy. Come out clean on the other side, back on track, and leading the life I’ve misplaced somewhere around here, lost in a deluge of sex, booze and drugs. Oh I know dear readers I’ve been something of a broken record. But I’m sickening myself, and my hedonistic days are numbered. A winter of content; at least until that glorious, glorious summer in Eastern Europe. Then I can ruin everything all over again.