Details

I wish for a lot of things. Like, for example, I wish I could draw. Unfortunately, life drawing class last week proved my sneaking suspicion of being insanely untalented when I turned a fairly good looking black man into an ape. Another reoccurring wish is that I could run faster on my little half Asian legs. I’ve tried, but natural inability prevails. I guess the likelihood of turning around this or any of my other shortcomings/disappointments/failures in the near future is slim to fuck all. That, and the fact I am consistently average at most things. Why can I not be supremely talented at just one thing? One. That’s all I ask. Actually, I’ve always felt I’ve got a natural technique for power walking. To date, I have not yet been picked up by any Olympic scouts. I feel they are missing out. Dammit, I could have been competing at the ancestral motherland Games.

So my weekend in gay Paris was lovely. I ate fabulous food, talked a lot of shit, wandered around a graveyard, had a picnic, saw an amazing exhibition, went on a ferris wheel and was very well behaved on the shopping front. Like in Marrakesh, I ran into slight difficulties with my French numbers. Who knew that knowing the difference between 14 and 40 (it ended up actually being 15) would be so important? Details. Small, small details.

I’m currently going through creative paranoia. I’m now answering to a copywriter for a team leader and while it’s great, I’m writing, re writing and re writing again everything over and over again. I know I’ll be better for it, but for someone who constantly misses out words, has terrible grammar and frequently suffers from brain constipation, I’m really worried that he thinks I’m crap.

This is my last weekend of being 26. And I was just getting used to it too. Sigh. I laughed at someone’s pad that said ‘bleedproof’ today. Maturity level still at 10.