Whatever happened, happened, and it left me with a lot to think and nothing to write about.

My house is still standing, my blog’s not going anywhere, and to the both of them I say: maybe next year again.

Just like in The Ballad of Lea and Paul.

Let’s call it lightning, let’s say it struck. My house is burning, the kitchen is on fire and I’m running around in circles, waiting for the ceiling to turn into water.

I know, of course, that it won’t.

Shocked, I try and fail to reason with myself. I look at my watch as it suddenly starts ticking. That thing wasn’t broken after all.

I know now what I did but didn’t want to know before. No buses stop here, it’s a long walk back to town; this was no place to build a home for myself, and that landlord’s a little evil after all.

Lighting struck and let me tell you this: lightning fucking hurts.

Believe it or not, but I was not alone last night. Looking back, this late night fling competes for the worst I’ve ever had.

First of all, my bedroom partner wasn’t there with my permission; she entered my apartment’s most sacred quarters purely by her own admission. This mad hellspawn of a girl forced herself upon me and paid no heed to the desperate no‘s and please no‘s I pitched at her.

It all happened so fast … is what I wish I could say. Instead we went at it for hours and made zero progress along the way. She was a beast, I give her that—an expert in her own messed up way.

Furniture got pushed around, matrasses were lifted from the bed and this process kept repeating itself every fifteen to thirty minutes. No, she did not care for me having planned a trip to my family the following day, nor was she halted by the dawn of a sunlit, bright new day. The alarm clock jumped from twelve to seven, yet she still refused to go away.

Every time our four eyes crossed, our mutual passions intersected: frustration, fear, insomnia, the uncontrollable urge to torment whoever was in front of us and the sense of being completely powerless against our opponent…
It was obvious, we shared virtually anything—anything far removed from love. Why wouldn’t she just leave?

I’m sorry, neighbours, for the racket we made, but this demon mouse was the devil’s breed.