Two nights ago was the worst of my life because of external circumstances, and I don’t think I can possibly experience worse within my lifetime. Last night was one of the best because of external circumstances. People are terrible, and beautiful, and complex as all hell. And that’s enthralling, no matter what it results in.
Flight home overbooked. Free hotel, free breakfast, free lunch, flight with a better airline arriving at a better time later in the day, and 600 Euros compensation. Not so bad.
I will never be able to listen to or make minor complaints again and feel as though they are in any way justified.
My whole sense of self has been totally ripped apart in one night. Nothing could have prepared me for this. I don’t want to be alive. I can’t be alive. I need to die. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
I’m sitting in an apartment in Paris and dreaming of men who work with their hands for the brute primal pleasure of it, not because they can’t do things with their head. Men who work with wood or metal, who make all day and work up a sheen of sweat, then come home and talk about philosophy/literature/politics/etc. I can count on one hand the men like this I’ve met and something about that has always been an instant attractor.