Ah, Valencia! Where a sense of perpetual vacation is floating in the air. Where cockroaches are fat, juicy and deeply disappointed in humankind. Mosquitos buzz in between layers of evening covering the city. Streets smell damp as if after rain but it’s only drops of sweat feeding the hot black tar. My neighbours are moving in they forget to wear clothes. The apartment was empty for so long and now there are people. Shiny skin dusty shorts always drilling or looking at something while thinking of drilling I'm sure. I see their every move (drill) and they see right through me and my living room. All of a sudden I feel impolite hanging on my couch with my legs flung over the back. So I sit up straight reading Pride and Prejudice, drinking white wine out of a raspberry with my pinkie up in the air like a real lady.
I was feeling low so I covered my face in coloured diamonds and life was instantly better. Saturday night I decided to go out wearing a moustache and boys on bikes yelled guapa at my moustache and the rest of my sweaty being turned even more red. So this is it. The secret for being showered with words of beauty while passing people on a bike. Just wear a moustache. One guy at the party asked to touch my furry upperlip and said it felt like a rug. Well I’m no expert because I seem to kiss mostly men who haven’t quite yet reached the level of facial hair you could actually call ‘a moustache’ or ‘a beard’. But I can imagine it feeling something like a rough kinda rug, no? Mine was soft at least, no complaints there.
All I’m trying to say is: you do you hun. Yes, I’m talking to myself and anyone who resonates. There’s highs and lows, Jane Austen and stick on moustaches. And all the juicy in betweens! Things don’t have to make sense for anyone, not even for yourself. As you can tell, I’m writing this yet again from a 40 degree hideaway behind the blinds. Yes, still in a state of half dream, half night, soaring, light slumbering, brain sweatinggoogle p under the Spanish sun.
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