Thursday, June 27, 2013

Eugene says try harder son!

Fuck. Yesterday was a shitstorm. After such a high on Tuesday night, when I was invited to Bombay Sapphire's 1920's Cocktail Hour (photos and video from the event, soon). So a huge item on my to-do list is to apply for a Spanish student visa. And it's a huge pain in the ass already. And I've barely begun the whole awful process! Obscure instructions, check. Unhelpful Spanish lady on the phone, check. Questionable work ethic and sense of urgency, check.

Need to try harder son. It's like I have this mental block that's not allowing me to focus. The boozing certainly isn't helping. I've been told in subtle (and not so subtle) ways that I drink far, far, far too much. Well how else do I cope? You want to do this shit for me? Am I not allowed to have one, solitary vice? What, you think I want to live forever?! They say you shouldn't talk about death. But I think about death and dying all the time. A constant companion, Eugene is.

I'm wrapping up here ... Toronto, I mean. I need a change of scenery so fucking bad. From everything. Spain might turn out not to be the land of milk and honey I envision - shit, it might be the worst fucking mistake of my life. There's no turning back now. Not after I've submitted my form for a Police Clearance Letter that (should) reassure the Spaniards that no, I'm not an international criminal mastermind. Yet.

O, death
O, death
Won't you spare me over til another year
Well what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin' hold of me

-Ralph Stanley, O Death


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