The saga of how i broke my arm...
...will probably not be recounted here right now ;) It's long and boring anbd the bloody arm hurts like hell so excuse the typos, and screw it. The bike is relatively intact which matters more in hindsight. Don't say I didn't warn you though. ;) Sth's gotta give.
This little trip (in all senses of the word) reminded me how much I loved the road and everything on it: from clouds floating overhead like it's nobody's business to lorries trudging by like huge caterpillars. You whoosh past them singiung and laughing your throat sore and you brake in the middle of good ol' nowhere and throw yourself into the grass and meditate there for hours, keeping warm by guzzling whiskey, and hell if it sounds at least half as cool as it was.
I've learnt that I really don't like taking pictures of places. Photos are incapable of grasping the magic. They don't really stop the moment, no matter how good the photographer [thinks he] is. Of course they're good for showing off but they do nothing for me personally.
(By the way, it's my right arm. So this typing thing is getting pretty uncomfy.)
One funny event: this bloke at the petrol station was downright coming on to me a couple of days ago. Xpp I told him I wasn't legal yet and threatened to call my big brother the boxer to kick his arse. The funniest thing is that the guy easily bought both crappy lies even though he saw D. I asked D later if I really looked that believably young. He said that with my overgrown fringe and my bandaged arm, I did. He bugged me all day calling me 'baby' and 'cutie pie' and got eventually kicked in the nuts.
Right now I'm in some questionable double room with Alanis singing Ironic on telly. Hotmail is down, but Erin, I saw your letter, and it's 'nooo' to the first, 'uwaaa!' to the second.
Life's good. How's yours?
This little trip (in all senses of the word) reminded me how much I loved the road and everything on it: from clouds floating overhead like it's nobody's business to lorries trudging by like huge caterpillars. You whoosh past them singiung and laughing your throat sore and you brake in the middle of good ol' nowhere and throw yourself into the grass and meditate there for hours, keeping warm by guzzling whiskey, and hell if it sounds at least half as cool as it was.
I've learnt that I really don't like taking pictures of places. Photos are incapable of grasping the magic. They don't really stop the moment, no matter how good the photographer [thinks he] is. Of course they're good for showing off but they do nothing for me personally.
(By the way, it's my right arm. So this typing thing is getting pretty uncomfy.)
One funny event: this bloke at the petrol station was downright coming on to me a couple of days ago. Xpp I told him I wasn't legal yet and threatened to call my big brother the boxer to kick his arse. The funniest thing is that the guy easily bought both crappy lies even though he saw D. I asked D later if I really looked that believably young. He said that with my overgrown fringe and my bandaged arm, I did. He bugged me all day calling me 'baby' and 'cutie pie' and got eventually kicked in the nuts.
Right now I'm in some questionable double room with Alanis singing Ironic on telly. Hotmail is down, but Erin, I saw your letter, and it's 'nooo' to the first, 'uwaaa!' to the second.
Life's good. How's yours?