Feelin' like a premature Bridget Jones

After all day long feeling like shit I decided to go for a walk. I didn’t have any specific place in mind, I just wanted to stroll my legs and to forget about all those stupid ideas and nasty feelings that were making my brains melt.

It’s been quite a strange day. I was supposed to go on holiday with some friends but at the end it didn’t work out. I got a text message early in the morning from my friend saying she was feeling very ill and that she would have to cancel our booking. I really knew something like that was about to happen. Lately I’ve been developing some kind of intuition that is just scaring me. Yesterday when I was packing up everything I had the feeling I wasn’t going to leave at all. And there you go, 9 am and I get this message. Huh.

That bitch of coordinator that I’ll have to put up with in Dortmund emailed me yesterday to tell me I might not have a place to sleep the first days. Fuck. Fuck. Now I’ll probably have to pay some money to be in a hostel until I find a place. Fuck again.

It’s been raining a lot and my kitchen almost got flooded. I had a swimming pool in the patio and one of the toilets was making funny noises and spitting water out. It felt like the Poltergeist house. It finally stopped raining but the place’s just a mess I have to clean up before my parents are back. I guess I’ll do it after writing this.

On the top of this, I still think of that camorrist motherfucker. So it’s been a really fucking nice day If you mark the irony of my words. I even painted something. Looks like a crazy Miró or Picasso painting made by a 4-year old idiot. I had fun though.

So went out for a walk. I listened to music and I was walking nowhere. Fuuuuuuuuuck. It even rained some drops. After going back home I went to the supermarket, but not the one I normally go, but to another which is also nearby. So people don’t know me and start asking stupid questions or looking at what I’m shopping. That’s none of their business. I’ve gone straight away to the wines and I’ve taken one bottle of red wine that amazingly enough is from my father’s village. I’ve known it when I was half drunk and I’ve read the back of the bottle.

As I was taking the bottle I’ve thought “Man, you’re one step closer to becoming a premature Bridget Jones”. Home alone, 23 years old, and already a depressed wine-o. I’ve cooked a decent meal and I’ve opened the bottle. I’ve just drunk less than the half of it. Enough for me. Suddenly everything has changed and I felt quite happy. And cheerful. And willing to talk even if I was alone. Willing to toss my cup to the bottle as tonight it was the only friend around. My bottle of red cheap wine and I.

I’ve got up and as I was singing and dancing to some Caribbean music I was listening on the radio I’ve decided to rush to my room, open up the laptop and start writing this. I don’t know if it makes much sense, I just feel a bit like Edgar Allan Poe, who wrote most of his works while he was drunk. Just a little bit the way I’m right now. He ended up with delirium tremens. I’m not that far away.

Just by now.