La chair est triste, hélas, et j’ai lu tous les livres…

As promised, here is a first update on the progress of the previously mentioned no-roommate project.

And I am ashamed to say that there isn’t much progress altogether.

You see, after briefly considering adult movie-making or experiments in urban anchoretical life as chief occupations for my week-end, I finally settled on a much more pedestrian — yet of proven entertainment value — plan. A plan essentially centered around a few easy concepts such as: alcohol (preferably cheap and plentiful), friend(s), cultural exploration of new neighbourhoods (through random sampling of bars and izakaia) as well as, potentially, use of substances and sex (on same requirements as alcohol).

In that case, you may ask, why am I sitting in front of my laptop on a friday night, typing this while most obviously not partaking in any of these activities. And that is a very legitimate question.

Well. In order to alleviate the guilt induced by the planning of this cold-blooded mass murder of my brain cells — the very brain cells that should have been busy taming the darker evils of H.323 protocol or quadratic integral all week-end long… In order to alleviate some of that guilt, I had decided that tonight would be “rest night”. The night where I hide the phone, wrap up work at 10, clean up the house a bit, cook meself a good dinner, watch a movie and fall asleep at midnight to wake up fresh and zippy in the morning, ready to get lots of stuff done before starting drinking margaritas around 2pm.

Which takes us to now, 3:52 in the morning, 2 hours into my desperate efforts to fall asleep. Finally coming to the realisation that it ain’t gonna happen before sunrise. And bored off my mind.

For let us not kid ourselves: if I am presently writing this, it is only because the cats are smart enough to stay away from the house when they hear me start the vacuum cleaner.

Of course, I could have done with that classic of blog entries: “I’m bored. blah.“…
But even despite the really low standards to which I hold this blog, I would still have had a hard time ever watching myself in a mirror after that. And it’s hard enough shaving with that glorified handsoap my local supermarket insists on selling under the guise of “shaving cream”.

Instead, I offer you this title quote to contemplate and medidate on (and don’t ask me what’s up with all the entry titles being in French these days, I really don’t have a clue. must be braincell decay)… It’s actually from a famous and somewhat forgettable poem by french poet Mallarmé. But it does sums up my current level of boredom cum existential ennui. Problem is not only that I’m bored, it’s that I would have hundreds of things to do, and just can’t even get myself to do any of it now.

About Mallarmé: he wasn’t really that good, but he took a lot of inspiration from Baudelaire, who is the greatest poet of all times.

Which is why, once done with this ode to my miserable life, I shall resort to crushing a few fresh chocolate brownies and smoke them while reading random pages from Les Fleurs du Mal