If perfection doesn’t exist, what/why do we strive for?
It has to be said: the boyfriend is a great cooker. I’ve been knowing him for almost a year now and I have to admit there’s some seriously weight-gaining involved. The good life, definitely.
Anyway. Yesterday we decided to go out for dinner. I was craving for Chinese food but the boyfriend didn’t give in. He preferred something simple, without all the fuzz’n'buzz. Thai food*!? He agreed.
So we tried ‘De Orchidee‘, located in the Vlaanderenstraat. The concept is quite simple. You chose your own vegetables, meat (pork, beef, chicken, fish or vegetarian), and a sauce. Half an hour later (+/-), you receive your dish and some thai rice. Bon appétit!
Although I’m not a big fan of “are-you-almost-done?”-restaurant thingies, I have to say the food and atmosphere were très bien. So if you’re into (healty) fastfood you should really check this out.
De Orchidee
Vlaanderenstraat 105
9000 Gent
*since McDonalds isn’t really an option anymore, cf. the weight-gaining.
Few things are about to change, and meanwhile we carry on with our lives. I feel there’s so much to talk about, yet so little time to explain. The things we were hoping for are getting closer. Everything louder than everything else. That’ll be (it).
Just when you think you’ve got it figured out so well, it all becomes very clear there’s nothing to figure out. A heart is a heart. And a heart is made out of strings. To be pulled. All this talking, all the time. It fills up the air until there’s nothing left to breathe. Until there’s nothing left to speak.
It’s been a while. No blog updates because of a trip to Rome and a boyfriend who isn’t much of a writer. And there’s more sad news (especially for the people who do actually read this). Because of the lack of time, there won’t be as many updates as there used to be.
But maybe all of you should try to convince the boyfriend to write some things down. In the mean time: hang on and take care.
Seven days and a bunch of e-mails later, the boyfriend is letting me know the weather in France sucks. Apeshit. Really. Today he finished his letter with a “can’t wait to get home”. And when one does finish a letter with those words, you know what time it is… .
Anyway. Today I wanted to write about next week’s Gay Pride. You know … an afternoon full of gay cliché’s, free condoms and lubricant. Word on the street it’ll be nur Spaß. Like every year there’s an afterparty at the Ancienne Belgique (Lori Glory is playing some tunes this year), and tons of other parties in and around Brussels.
Most likely non of us will be in the mood to go shake and stir at the AB (too expensive), so we’ll probably be checking out Bitchy Butch. Because on a day full of gay cliché’s we want some ‘real’ men too. What else are the condoms and lubricant for?
Almost every Friday the so-called independent queer in me goes back home. Just because I don’t want to lose connection with my hometown my mom does my laundry. So today I took the train like I always do. Since getting a free seat is a bitch, I showed up early and got myself a nice spot.
Until two – have you seen my big hooters? – girls (I prefer not to speak of women here) with awful effeminate voices decided to sit next to me. Auwtch. Wrong move. Especially since 1) I want to be left alone on Friday evenings and 2) they were talking so damn loud the iPod was quite useless against them.
But hey. I’m an understanding person. So I really cán imagine some people get so excited in going back home after a week of solitary loneliness. But that DOES NOT mean you can rub against my furry legs and try to seduce me. Period.
Yes. It’s all quiet in here. That’s because the boyfriend left today. He’s spending the next ten days in la douce France. Chez un ami, tu sais. And yes.. it feels awkward to be alone (again) since we never had to miss eachother more than a day.
Yesterday the boyfriend bought a lottery ticket. “The winning numbers”, he said. We actually never win something but this time it would be completely different, he tried to convince me. Sure it was different. Unfortunately no lucky numbers. No money. Nothing.
What happened? Apparently he lost the ticket (although that seemed impossible to do so). Even after retracing our steps into town still no ticket. It was gone. Gone! And with it, our lucky numbers and millions of money. Shit, Scheiβe, Merde!
We imagined some lucky bastard(s) finding our ticket, buying the house we would have bought, riding the car (an Alfa Romeo 159 Sportwagon, that is) we would have ridden, etc. Seriously. The thought was and still is … unbearable.
