I have excuses, I really do. But is an excuse ever really an excuse? I mean, shouldn't you just be able to suck back excuses, steam roll over them and continue on, life as normal?
But that would make me perfect. That, I am not.
Wait. Scratch that. That is a blatant lie. Everyone who knows me knows of my perfection.
I have no idea what my problem is, then. Perhaps I don't even have a problem.
Anyway. Many things have happened in the last twenty days. I have been to Lourdes again, where it was consistently assumed I was Italian. I was, yet again, and still naked, shoved, into frigid water that almost made my body short circuit but miraculously didn't kill me.
Imagine that. Dying at Lourdes from hypothermia caused by water meant to......heal you. Oh the irony. I probably shouldn't even laugh at that.
But I am.
On my way back from Lourdes, or perhaps it was on the way to Lourdes, I stopped in Toulouse for a few hours and, as is always the case, the area around the train station is remarkably seedy and disgusting.
This was made up for by the fact that I had the interesting experience of passing a brothel, stopping to figure out what it was before actually realizing what it was, peeking through the window, and having my eyeballs scream at me in protest. I proceeded to rinse them with bleach. The pain distracted me from the images imprinted irrevocably on my mind.
I mean seriously. If you work in a brothel shouldn't you be at least passably pretty and show some semblance of muscle tone? Or at the VERY least a disinclination to eat every single item on a buffet table?
Maybe it was a cheap place. I have no idea of these things. Maybe at higher class establishments the girls have to not look like trolls and actually try to fit into something smaller than a circus tent with an addition added on for a particularly busy night.
But enough about brothels.
A few days after Lourdes, I hopped on a plane and flew home to, essentially, get some blood work done and pow-wow with serious faced doctors about various aspects of my body and its oddities. Here I stay for a few months until I go join a convent or something.
I'm sorry. I should stop making that joke. It weirds people out too much. I don't know why. I think I would make an excellent nun. Don't you?
Don't even bother to answer that.
In any case, I am here to tell you that you should expect programming to resume as usual.
Your life will no longer be empty and devoid of joy when you check this corner of the blogosphere and find it unattended to. Yet again.
At least, I hope this is the case. Because really, what can I write about beyond things like my special European import, or the fact that my hair is currently purple and I am currently banned from chocolate?
Maybe you don't even want to know.
I am not sure even I want to know.