The kitten and the alcoholics, sex and drug addicts

He sings about the old familiar sting. Up till now I haven’t forgotten how it feels. Last night’s splinter in my leg was a perfect reminder and also walking past some bike shop even increased my emotional level.

The incompetence of this city got me home too late. It’s bright now and I don’t even feel tired. I just have this constant need to wear my hood just to prevent myself from throwing biased and prejudiced utterances and accusations at British lifestyle and the Austrian accent and dialect. That close to throwing my mobile phone against the wall even though there were a couple of nice New Year’s wishes.

I forgot my cigarettes again – my Pall Mall menthol, €4,30. Do I look like I want to buy any in this country? – I don’t think so, either.

Maybe I should have listened to my dad and gone to America or Canada in 2002. I probably would have spared myself a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble.
The more I think about it, the clearer it gets that I am only in love with this language and nothing else.

When that Austrian beast tried to kiss me, I rejected and said there was actually someone else. I don’t even know why I’d said that, as there is no one else. It took me a while to realize to whom I’m being loyal if not to myself. But it doesn’t make sense; nothing does, not at the moment anyway.

I only realized who I am not. Last night I realized who I am not. But I know who I would like to be. It’s like Oscar who wished he was Dorian, except he knew he was nothing more than Basil. Just Basil.

I guess my problem is my soberness. I love my reality. I’m just jealous that a drunk “mass” manages to achieve unison and I’m the only one that seems to strike a discordant note in the middle of it. Of course they are all so drunk they don’t even notice it and nonetheless, they think I’m one of them.
Whatever people are nowadays, I always find myself being the complete opposite. I love it this way. The only question is whether they accept me or not. Not that I care.

I am who I thought I was. I am not what I cannot be.

In fiction I can be me and thousands of other things – a damselfly or a bumble-bee, breathe with tracheae and have Hank Chinaski saving me from a spider when I’m caught in the web.

Why can I relate myself to writers who are alcoholics, drug and sex addicts even though none of those characteristics apply to me?
The secret is that I understand them. I understand every single piece of shit that they excrete. I am not like them at all; not one little bit. The only thing that connects me with these writers is just the one technique that we use:
-Honesty (and indifference). But I do lie by the way.

Lead me beneath the surface of your skin. Keep me interested.  Tell me more about your scar. Keep my ears perked up. I might lick your scar.

We can talk about the weather in my next life when I’m a dog. According to my inexplicable loyalty, I think I had already been a dog in my previous life and you were the kitten that I mauled.

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