I either need to have sex or go to Europe. And seeing as though I can never make it past second base without suddenly becoming utterly repulsed by the gentlemen to whom with which I am "getting bad" - I'd say I'd have better luck in Prague.
Luck with what?
I don't know. Feeling alive. Feeling pain when I prick my finger, feeling numb at the sight of my own blood pearling up, tasting the salt and not liking it as much as I do now. I should recoil at the taste. And I should feel sadness when someone's relative dies other them complete lack of remorse. Other than "oh that's too bad, a million babies are starving in Africa." Feeling lust for something breathtaking instead of something mediocre we give way to much credit to. Feeling like there's a point to all this. There must be a point and I think I'm doing a prince of a job missing that point.
Match point.
Yes. Match point.
You like to win?
Love it.
And losing?
Not anymore.
How can you be so sure?
Trust me.
2 magic words and suddenly I'm sure? I believe you?
You can be as sure of me as you are of the world without God.
What?
Have I confused you?
Completely.
Well good, I wasn't born to make your life easy. I was born to do something grand.
Go to Europe or have sex?
Precisely so.
Hmmm.
Will you excuse me now, I must retire to my room and pack.
Bring plenty of fresh underwear.
I shall.
And a map.
Of course, the last thing I want is to get lost. ....Unless it's all on purpose that is. Than I'd really feel alive.
xo
