the smoke upstairs in the cafe gives me a headache. 15 or 16 cigarettes have been lit in the 2 hours i've been here and the smoke's not going anywhere but to my head. i feel it in my throat and eyes. so much for this work space.
such is the cafe life here, evidently- no linnaea's or gimme coffee or what have you from the motherland on chilly spring saturday mornings, or friday college nights with live music and bottomless iced teas. or mate lattes.
nonetheless it is a cafe life. smoke and groups of men in black and gelled hair. sporadic pairs of women also clad in black, skinny jeans, make up and striaghened hair. they don't smoke as much as the men do. even the 14 year old men learn about the cigarette and the black vestments and faux D&G sweaters and big glasses. just the necessities, like sitting for hours and eying me. and they do.
ss-ss, they say.
am i a cat?
About Me
- dillonquent
- Tunis, Tunisia
- we can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come. -milan kundera from the unbearable lightness of being
1 comment:
You are a kat. But not the kind to be hissed at. You are the kind of Kat that will purr in your lap and leave a big shat. Then the men will all scream, "The cat shat on my lap!" And you will be fast and long gone, laughing to yourself at their soggy trousers.
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