I don’t want to be dumped nicely. I would like, if it’s not too much of an irritating inconvenience, the harsh reality served cold, please. I could not stand the politeness and the gruesomeness that follows one’s pathetic attempt to keep it all politically correct. How does this obscure ambiguity can be of any help to me? It is hard enough being dumped to begin with, please spare this redundant misery; provide some feedback, help me. Tell me I don’t look as half as good as your mental image of prince charming which emerged in your mind since you were five. Tell me my sense of humor makes you want to die, and it does, it stabs the knife in your flesh every time I tell a joke, and it twisting this knife every time I laugh at my own jokes. Tell me you wish I would’ve died myself, because than you can stay alive, but for certain, one of us can’t stay. That I bore you with my unintellectual insights of a Neanderthal; that you’re too filled up with this that one more second with me and you will explode. And all of your pieces will cover my face and stain my suit, and you will hate the fact you’re all over me, that we have to be so close again. But instead you just wear a weary smile, and tell me it’s you who is fucked up.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The India Idea
Well, it's been more than a year since I last wrote here, so it's probably about time I'll update with what I'm going through these days.
The main reason I'm back to this blog is because a change in a shape of a trip is about to be a part of my life. And this blog's initial purpose was to treasure thoughts and insights from my well remembered trip to America. This time the plane will take off to the opposite direction, which means east, to India. Why India particularly? I honestly don't know. I've been thinking of practically everywhere in the world, including Africa, Thailand, Japan, Australia, back to south America, or central America but I think it was one sentence that came out of my friend's mouth, that had finally tipped the scales. He, who was trying to convince me to go to convenient Thailand, said, as an argument to waive the India idea: "Landing on India is the closest experience to landing on a new planet".
The other day I was sitting on the grass, at the city park, when an eccentric guy came up to me. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, since I really enjoy the Arctic Monkeys, but eventually I let the headphones go, so I could hear what the man had to offer. He introduced himself as a poet, and told me he has pinpointed me as his poems potential buyer as I was an extraordinary view of a young man reading. I'm 24. Then he added he is the so-claimed famous "bank manager who gave up everything to become a poet". He told me about a T.V. show they making about him, "The bank manager who gave everything up to become a poet". I was politely smiling at him, but what I really wanted to say to him is that I sincerely appreciate the truth lightened up his world, the unmaterialism he's been going through, but what is the thing with the bank manager mentioning? If you are really true with yourself, you gave up all of these you claim are lies, why are you using them to promote your poems? why using lies to sell truth? It just doesn't make any sense! So I handed him a handful of coins and thanked him for his songs.
I hope to get my life changing experience in India. Hopefully it will be a meaningful one, but must I be honest with myself and say it's probably not the reason I'm taking this trip. I've been running an envious life. Getting paid well, even comparing to people with a degree, living at the very center of this country's greatest city, having lots of lovers. A sanity doesn't get along with all this goodness for too long. It's just too perfect, which is a nicer word for boring. I feel like most of what I've learned came from the tougher eras of my life. Trauma to our mind is like injector to our veins. And yes, comparing heroin to insights is conceivable.
The main reason I'm back to this blog is because a change in a shape of a trip is about to be a part of my life. And this blog's initial purpose was to treasure thoughts and insights from my well remembered trip to America. This time the plane will take off to the opposite direction, which means east, to India. Why India particularly? I honestly don't know. I've been thinking of practically everywhere in the world, including Africa, Thailand, Japan, Australia, back to south America, or central America but I think it was one sentence that came out of my friend's mouth, that had finally tipped the scales. He, who was trying to convince me to go to convenient Thailand, said, as an argument to waive the India idea: "Landing on India is the closest experience to landing on a new planet".
The other day I was sitting on the grass, at the city park, when an eccentric guy came up to me. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, since I really enjoy the Arctic Monkeys, but eventually I let the headphones go, so I could hear what the man had to offer. He introduced himself as a poet, and told me he has pinpointed me as his poems potential buyer as I was an extraordinary view of a young man reading. I'm 24. Then he added he is the so-claimed famous "bank manager who gave up everything to become a poet". He told me about a T.V. show they making about him, "The bank manager who gave everything up to become a poet". I was politely smiling at him, but what I really wanted to say to him is that I sincerely appreciate the truth lightened up his world, the unmaterialism he's been going through, but what is the thing with the bank manager mentioning? If you are really true with yourself, you gave up all of these you claim are lies, why are you using them to promote your poems? why using lies to sell truth? It just doesn't make any sense! So I handed him a handful of coins and thanked him for his songs.
I hope to get my life changing experience in India. Hopefully it will be a meaningful one, but must I be honest with myself and say it's probably not the reason I'm taking this trip. I've been running an envious life. Getting paid well, even comparing to people with a degree, living at the very center of this country's greatest city, having lots of lovers. A sanity doesn't get along with all this goodness for too long. It's just too perfect, which is a nicer word for boring. I feel like most of what I've learned came from the tougher eras of my life. Trauma to our mind is like injector to our veins. And yes, comparing heroin to insights is conceivable.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Back in Israel
Back to Israel, back to the laborious routine, the depraved politicians, the senseless death in every corner, the getting smaller, abandoned feeling threating to take over and defeat you. What the hell am I doing here?
Until now I had the excuse of being a traveler for doing nothing and thinking of nothing but my next meal. Breathing the freedom, let it fill my empty soul, surround me with an illusion of fullnesses. Am studying right now and all I can think of is my next trip to Europe.
Why care about the future if I have no nonce?
Until now I had the excuse of being a traveler for doing nothing and thinking of nothing but my next meal. Breathing the freedom, let it fill my empty soul, surround me with an illusion of fullnesses. Am studying right now and all I can think of is my next trip to Europe.
Why care about the future if I have no nonce?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Communication
To get back to the hotel from the flooded Amazon beach (next week it should be okay), I took a local bus to Santarem. Ten minutes passing by, when suddenly I notice an older man standing behind me. Since I don't speak a word in Portuguese or Him in English, I didn't bother to try, so I spoke to him in hebrew.
Our conversation was something like that:
Me: (hebrew) (hebrew) (hebrew) . . . (hebrew)
?
Him: (Portuguese) (Portuguese) . . . (Portuguese)
!
"Between 55 and 70 percent of your communication is non-verbal. Only about 7 percent is actual words used and the rest is tone of voice, etc."
Our conversation was something like that:
Me: (hebrew) (hebrew) (hebrew) . . . (hebrew)
?Him: (Portuguese) (Portuguese) . . . (Portuguese)
!"Between 55 and 70 percent of your communication is non-verbal. Only about 7 percent is actual words used and the rest is tone of voice, etc."
A Hard Rain is Gonna Fall
Sitting in a Brazilian restaurant, wearing clothes with the colors of Argentina, on my bag a sticker that reveals my love to Colombia, around my table there's a couple from Holland, and I'm Israeli. Twenty-two players are on the field. At the end of the game, there will be only eleven, who wear different colors then mine.
At 3 Brazil will play, but before that there's a big game as well. Eight-number-T-shirt that I wear paint me in yellow, but the heart is red. After 120 minutes the red turns to black, England's out. '59, Henry score for the wrong net and by doing that, sends Brazil home. Brazil's out? Can't be. Our (the Brazilian) plan was different, my timing was perfect. I didn't even get to Salvador yet.
A third world war I thought to myself. Violence on the streets. What a shitty timing I have. I was wrong. The Whistle that marked the end of the game, was blended by the samba music that threat to tear the speakers. The Brazilian are happy, smiling and dancing.
In every place in the world, when a new baby is being borned, he first learns how to crawl, stand and walk. Not in Brazil. Here they learn first how to dance and then run (for the soccer, of course). Everybody's dancing, the mother and the son, the grandfather and the daughter, even the doll that wears the festival colors, joining the party.
In New Orleans people preparing for the next hurricane that hit last year at the same period, and destroyed houses, families, and belief. And I'm here, dancing. A pathetic try to get rid of my guilty feeling, I donate to the war against racism. Knowing I'm doing that to feel less guilty, made me feel more guilty.
At 3 Brazil will play, but before that there's a big game as well. Eight-number-T-shirt that I wear paint me in yellow, but the heart is red. After 120 minutes the red turns to black, England's out. '59, Henry score for the wrong net and by doing that, sends Brazil home. Brazil's out? Can't be. Our (the Brazilian) plan was different, my timing was perfect. I didn't even get to Salvador yet.
A third world war I thought to myself. Violence on the streets. What a shitty timing I have. I was wrong. The Whistle that marked the end of the game, was blended by the samba music that threat to tear the speakers. The Brazilian are happy, smiling and dancing.
In every place in the world, when a new baby is being borned, he first learns how to crawl, stand and walk. Not in Brazil. Here they learn first how to dance and then run (for the soccer, of course). Everybody's dancing, the mother and the son, the grandfather and the daughter, even the doll that wears the festival colors, joining the party.
In New Orleans people preparing for the next hurricane that hit last year at the same period, and destroyed houses, families, and belief. And I'm here, dancing. A pathetic try to get rid of my guilty feeling, I donate to the war against racism. Knowing I'm doing that to feel less guilty, made me feel more guilty.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
The King of the World
Beautiful. I found myself repeating this word every time I turned my head back, and looked at the breath-taking, colonial town of Villa De Leiva. Climbing this mountain wasn´t an easy assignment, especially not for one who acted like a bum in the past three months, like I did. But it was worth every spit of blood. The beauty of the city can not be described by words, even a picture isn´t good enough.
Einav once wrote me of her New York City experience. She was describing the feeling of walking on the streets surrounded by huge metal building, as being the king of the world. Well, I love my friend, but I must disagree. I´ve been in New York and walked those streets. The monsterity buildings are hiding the sun and that´s exactly how I felt. Like I´m walking at the shade of these building. I felt so small, so meaningless.
But here, landing alone in an unknown country, where the people speak ununderstandable language, buying a hungry man a hot meal, taking a bus to unfamiliar destination, passing indescribable beautiful views and writing from the top of the mountain, while listening to Bob Dylan - This is being the King of the World.
Einav once wrote me of her New York City experience. She was describing the feeling of walking on the streets surrounded by huge metal building, as being the king of the world. Well, I love my friend, but I must disagree. I´ve been in New York and walked those streets. The monsterity buildings are hiding the sun and that´s exactly how I felt. Like I´m walking at the shade of these building. I felt so small, so meaningless.
But here, landing alone in an unknown country, where the people speak ununderstandable language, buying a hungry man a hot meal, taking a bus to unfamiliar destination, passing indescribable beautiful views and writing from the top of the mountain, while listening to Bob Dylan - This is being the King of the World.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Like a Rolling Stone
It's been a while since the last time I wrote, and I don't know where to start. I have so much to tell and I'm afraid I'm gonna miss something important. But I probably will, so I better just start writing. After a month working for Franklin, I finally started my trip, my journey. During my last days at Maryland, I bought a one-way flight ticket to New Orleans, in order to volunteer there. Buying the flight ticket was pretty much everything I did about N.O.
A week after, I found myself landing on N.O Land, not knowing anything about the city, where I was going or where I was gonna spend the night. The hour was about 6 pm when I went out thru the airport doors, thinking whether to turn left or to the right. I guess the warm weather made me feel at home so I was calmed and relaxed, following the signs to the ground transportation. I got to this boutique, with no one in it, trying to read some papers hanging on the wall, without great success I must add, until I saw a backpacker entered the room with a bandana on his head. "Where are you headin' to?" I asked. "The Common Ground Relief," he answered. "I'm coming with you!" I replied. At the Airport we met John from California, who had been in N.O before, and was waiting for his friend to pick him up. He offered us a ride to the "Common Ground" site, and a few minutes after, I found myself standing in front of an old GMC vehicle, drawn with peace and love, but the inside was much more interesting. John's lovely friend had removed the benches from the back of the car and put in an iMac computer, a closet and a bed. Forget about "pimp my ride". That was the coolest car I've ever seen, and she did that by herself! So we took a ride sitting on the floor talking about god knows what, and after a long forty mins, we finally arrived.
Apparently, she dropped us off at the wrong spot. The place that we left the van at was the old site of the common ground, while the new one was about 7 blocks away. I will use this space to mention I have a HUGE bag. So we found ourselves, two strangers from two different countries (Mike was from Massachusetts), speaking two different languages, walking in a ghost city in the middle of the night towards a place we think we're going to. Fortunately, we were actually going to the right direction and we got there after an exhausting 30 minutes of walking (yay! I'm back in the army).
I couldn't think of a better first impression. When we got there, a band was playing jazz, and dozens of volunteers were dancing to the music they were producing. Everybody was so smiley, so happy (so hippy) - that was perfect. I felt at home right away. New Yorker Ian was welcoming us, introducing us to our new accommodation, and giving us a short speech about what this place is all about (or: where the fuck are we).
After I got rid of my fat-ass bag, I went out and started to get to know the people. I've been in America for two months already and I can tell that in this place I've met some of the best people I've met in my whole life. I have so many new friends, friends that I connected with really fast, friends that I love. We have a lot of artists, writers, journalists, photographers. Lots of college students who devoted their spring break to help and volunteer, while their friends are getting drunk in Mexico and Florida. So many good people, interesting people. I've heard so many opinions and perspectives of people. I learned here in a week what I didn't learn in three and a half years in the army. And that's just the volunteers. I learned so much from the people of N.O about pain, belief and hope. Seeing a 54-year-old trying to hide a tear, after such a long time must change something in anyone. I met Alice from Chicago on my second day, who took me to a demonstration in the city and a march along the bridge where people were left to die. Alice is a journalist for the "Revolution" newspaper, and one of the most interesting people I've met. People are so much more beautiful here. Once you get to know them, and see the passion in their eyes. The passion to change, the passion to do the right thing. At the march, we were selling the newspaper to people, saying a few words about it. There I got to know the people of the city, the pain of those poor people, and how they keep believing. After you see what happened and how they got treated, you realize how amazing it is.
The work that we do is mostly gutting houses. We get into a flooded house (which is almost every house in N.O) and we start to remove everything from the inside. You enter a house and you see everything, ruined. You can't stop yourself from thinking about your house, and all the stuff in it, ruined. The carpets, the TV, the beds, the tables, the playstation, the photo albums, books, cds, cellphones, everything is still there. All the houses here are built from wood so the houses got lots of mold in them, that we need to take care of. The most difficult place to be in was the "Martin Luther King School". They had a big music room, and all the instruments inside were ruined. I can't describe how hard it is to throw a violin to the garbage.
But New Orleans is not all about pain and misery. I'm sitting outside the cathedral. An old black man is sitting on a bench, singing a soul song to the sky, occasionally playing with his harmonica. An Asian guy memorizes the moment thru his huge telescope camera, a Chinese girl sits on the sidewalk playing the violin while a black girl behind her dances to Jazz music only she can hear. Two minutes after, the magic is still in the air, the rest are gone. This is the soul of New Orleans and it's everywhere. In the decorated buildings of the French Quarter, in the bicycle riders all over the streets, the people folding their clothes in the laundry room, the protest banners on the shirts hanging on the windows of bourbon street, the Jazz music coming out of every street corner, the volunteers who leave their families, work and school to help poor people build their houses. The magic of New Orleans I will never forget. My New Orleans.
A week after, I found myself landing on N.O Land, not knowing anything about the city, where I was going or where I was gonna spend the night. The hour was about 6 pm when I went out thru the airport doors, thinking whether to turn left or to the right. I guess the warm weather made me feel at home so I was calmed and relaxed, following the signs to the ground transportation. I got to this boutique, with no one in it, trying to read some papers hanging on the wall, without great success I must add, until I saw a backpacker entered the room with a bandana on his head. "Where are you headin' to?" I asked. "The Common Ground Relief," he answered. "I'm coming with you!" I replied. At the Airport we met John from California, who had been in N.O before, and was waiting for his friend to pick him up. He offered us a ride to the "Common Ground" site, and a few minutes after, I found myself standing in front of an old GMC vehicle, drawn with peace and love, but the inside was much more interesting. John's lovely friend had removed the benches from the back of the car and put in an iMac computer, a closet and a bed. Forget about "pimp my ride". That was the coolest car I've ever seen, and she did that by herself! So we took a ride sitting on the floor talking about god knows what, and after a long forty mins, we finally arrived.
Apparently, she dropped us off at the wrong spot. The place that we left the van at was the old site of the common ground, while the new one was about 7 blocks away. I will use this space to mention I have a HUGE bag. So we found ourselves, two strangers from two different countries (Mike was from Massachusetts), speaking two different languages, walking in a ghost city in the middle of the night towards a place we think we're going to. Fortunately, we were actually going to the right direction and we got there after an exhausting 30 minutes of walking (yay! I'm back in the army).
I couldn't think of a better first impression. When we got there, a band was playing jazz, and dozens of volunteers were dancing to the music they were producing. Everybody was so smiley, so happy (so hippy) - that was perfect. I felt at home right away. New Yorker Ian was welcoming us, introducing us to our new accommodation, and giving us a short speech about what this place is all about (or: where the fuck are we).
After I got rid of my fat-ass bag, I went out and started to get to know the people. I've been in America for two months already and I can tell that in this place I've met some of the best people I've met in my whole life. I have so many new friends, friends that I connected with really fast, friends that I love. We have a lot of artists, writers, journalists, photographers. Lots of college students who devoted their spring break to help and volunteer, while their friends are getting drunk in Mexico and Florida. So many good people, interesting people. I've heard so many opinions and perspectives of people. I learned here in a week what I didn't learn in three and a half years in the army. And that's just the volunteers. I learned so much from the people of N.O about pain, belief and hope. Seeing a 54-year-old trying to hide a tear, after such a long time must change something in anyone. I met Alice from Chicago on my second day, who took me to a demonstration in the city and a march along the bridge where people were left to die. Alice is a journalist for the "Revolution" newspaper, and one of the most interesting people I've met. People are so much more beautiful here. Once you get to know them, and see the passion in their eyes. The passion to change, the passion to do the right thing. At the march, we were selling the newspaper to people, saying a few words about it. There I got to know the people of the city, the pain of those poor people, and how they keep believing. After you see what happened and how they got treated, you realize how amazing it is.
The work that we do is mostly gutting houses. We get into a flooded house (which is almost every house in N.O) and we start to remove everything from the inside. You enter a house and you see everything, ruined. You can't stop yourself from thinking about your house, and all the stuff in it, ruined. The carpets, the TV, the beds, the tables, the playstation, the photo albums, books, cds, cellphones, everything is still there. All the houses here are built from wood so the houses got lots of mold in them, that we need to take care of. The most difficult place to be in was the "Martin Luther King School". They had a big music room, and all the instruments inside were ruined. I can't describe how hard it is to throw a violin to the garbage.
But New Orleans is not all about pain and misery. I'm sitting outside the cathedral. An old black man is sitting on a bench, singing a soul song to the sky, occasionally playing with his harmonica. An Asian guy memorizes the moment thru his huge telescope camera, a Chinese girl sits on the sidewalk playing the violin while a black girl behind her dances to Jazz music only she can hear. Two minutes after, the magic is still in the air, the rest are gone. This is the soul of New Orleans and it's everywhere. In the decorated buildings of the French Quarter, in the bicycle riders all over the streets, the people folding their clothes in the laundry room, the protest banners on the shirts hanging on the windows of bourbon street, the Jazz music coming out of every street corner, the volunteers who leave their families, work and school to help poor people build their houses. The magic of New Orleans I will never forget. My New Orleans.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Gotta Serve Somebody
I'm afraid of America.
I'm afraid that the country will change me. They got a new religion here and its god is Franklin. I can't say I'm surprised coz one of the reasons I came here was to make money, but it's more than that. When I worked in Boston at the mall, some guy dropped his wallet. I stopped him and gave him his money back. a man passed by and nodded his head on me, giving me the look of "you're crazy, man". The guy with the money was so grateful that he wanted to give me 20$. On my way back to D.C from Boston I took the metro. There was an old lady, tryin' to carry her bags down the escalator. I grabbed her cases and took it downstairs and waited for her. She came amazed, as the people around her, smiling and thanking me like it was the first time in her 70 years of living that something like that happens to her, and saying: "thank god America has tourists".
Boston
I took a flight to Boston, landed at the airport where Eldar's (my cousin) employee, Guy, picked me up to Eldar's place. I got there, met Sabrina (Eldar's wife), and studied the work. The day after I was at the mall, tryin' to sell hair straighters I had no clue about. Since I learned the basic rule of the job, I started to sell. The rule was: Hit on every girl you see. It was like being in a club for twelve hours. Along the time I became really good with the straightens and did the hair of dozens girls a day, all ages, all sizes, all colors. I even once did the hair of an eighteen years old California model. Of course she knew that a top hair styler from Spain is messin' up with her hair :) All the other workers at the company were girls from all over the world: Hila, Nofar & Hadass (Israel), Laura, Isabel (France), Ariel, Kim (USA) & Nikki (Japan).
Since I don't wanna stay here for too long, and I don't have the time to learn a new job, I was looking for a job with a safe income. That's how I started to sell motion pictures. A really Corny item that only the shopping obsessed Americans will buy. I get 25% of the sales and a minimum of 500$ a week.
Maryland
These days I live somewhere between Baltimore & D.C, sharing an apartment with three other guys. Avi from Israel, Chris & Gabe from Chicago. Ever since I've been here, me and my Americans friends are going out every night. We went downtown to Georgetown. That's a neat long avenue full of bars and clubs. The weird thing about US nightlife is the bars & clubs close very early. I found it out when I was dancing with sabrina in a Boston club, and all of a sudden the lights turned on, and the music changed. The party was alive and the place was packed. It was only 2am. After I spent almost 70$ at the bars of D.C and Baltimore, we were looking for a cheap drinks place. That's how we got to a students place in College Park. The funny thing was that I've been there before with my American ex-girlfriend and now I'm with my new American friends.
Back to work. At First I was satisfied with the pictures coz I saw people checking them out. Than I noticed they were mostly girls, and then I found they were checking me out. Horny American girls...
Right now I'm at the mall and two boys and two girls entered a furniture store and sat on a sofa infront the showcase window. They were sitting on a sofa in a weird kindda way, frozen. a group of people gathered around them when they sharply moved. The people were scared to death and then they couldn't stop laughing.
Americans may be stupid, but they are sure fun.
New Orleans, South America
Soon my friends...
I'm afraid that the country will change me. They got a new religion here and its god is Franklin. I can't say I'm surprised coz one of the reasons I came here was to make money, but it's more than that. When I worked in Boston at the mall, some guy dropped his wallet. I stopped him and gave him his money back. a man passed by and nodded his head on me, giving me the look of "you're crazy, man". The guy with the money was so grateful that he wanted to give me 20$. On my way back to D.C from Boston I took the metro. There was an old lady, tryin' to carry her bags down the escalator. I grabbed her cases and took it downstairs and waited for her. She came amazed, as the people around her, smiling and thanking me like it was the first time in her 70 years of living that something like that happens to her, and saying: "thank god America has tourists".
Boston
I took a flight to Boston, landed at the airport where Eldar's (my cousin) employee, Guy, picked me up to Eldar's place. I got there, met Sabrina (Eldar's wife), and studied the work. The day after I was at the mall, tryin' to sell hair straighters I had no clue about. Since I learned the basic rule of the job, I started to sell. The rule was: Hit on every girl you see. It was like being in a club for twelve hours. Along the time I became really good with the straightens and did the hair of dozens girls a day, all ages, all sizes, all colors. I even once did the hair of an eighteen years old California model. Of course she knew that a top hair styler from Spain is messin' up with her hair :) All the other workers at the company were girls from all over the world: Hila, Nofar & Hadass (Israel), Laura, Isabel (France), Ariel, Kim (USA) & Nikki (Japan).
Since I don't wanna stay here for too long, and I don't have the time to learn a new job, I was looking for a job with a safe income. That's how I started to sell motion pictures. A really Corny item that only the shopping obsessed Americans will buy. I get 25% of the sales and a minimum of 500$ a week.
Maryland
These days I live somewhere between Baltimore & D.C, sharing an apartment with three other guys. Avi from Israel, Chris & Gabe from Chicago. Ever since I've been here, me and my Americans friends are going out every night. We went downtown to Georgetown. That's a neat long avenue full of bars and clubs. The weird thing about US nightlife is the bars & clubs close very early. I found it out when I was dancing with sabrina in a Boston club, and all of a sudden the lights turned on, and the music changed. The party was alive and the place was packed. It was only 2am. After I spent almost 70$ at the bars of D.C and Baltimore, we were looking for a cheap drinks place. That's how we got to a students place in College Park. The funny thing was that I've been there before with my American ex-girlfriend and now I'm with my new American friends.
Back to work. At First I was satisfied with the pictures coz I saw people checking them out. Than I noticed they were mostly girls, and then I found they were checking me out. Horny American girls...
Right now I'm at the mall and two boys and two girls entered a furniture store and sat on a sofa infront the showcase window. They were sitting on a sofa in a weird kindda way, frozen. a group of people gathered around them when they sharply moved. The people were scared to death and then they couldn't stop laughing.
Americans may be stupid, but they are sure fun.
New Orleans, South America
Soon my friends...
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