tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3844338.post-1162782249902489592006-11-05T21:41:00.000-05:002006-11-05T22:04:09.930-05:002006-11-05T22:04:09.930-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dryadesgarten.de/bilder/steinlandschaft1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://www.dryadesgarten.de/bilder/steinlandschaft1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The unpacking doesn't seem to end. The new cleaner is coming tomorrow and I am terrified that she will resign on sight if I don't give everything a one over today. I opened a note book which I have obviously been taking with me everywhere since I left London as two cards fell out which were addressed to me at the apartment my sister and I sold nearly ten years ago. Seems my life doesn't change much. A lot of melodama. A lot of promises I believed which hindsight proves to have been empty. In one of them, its author had called me pulchritudinous. Hand on cock when that was penned, no doubt.<br /><br />And then there's a letter from me, not posted, dated 1999.<br /><br />"A<br /><br />Today, three days after you left, I realized I was bored with crying about you and fixed the video which had remained a mystery to you during the entire three months that you were living here. It was really easy. Are you a cretin?<br /><br />You don't need to answer that.<br /><br />No regards<br /><br />Maccers"<br /><br />Bitter, but proud. Always.mehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09424176903806243424noreply@blogger.com