Truth is...

My British mates have been complaining about the fact that I write in Danish and that they don’t understand a word of what’s going on. I tried to explain them, that’s the whole point and actually one of the main reasons, that I write in Danish, cause that way I can gossip about them without them knowing. However this one time I’ve agreed to write in English, so that those who are not blessed with an awesome language also can have a little something.

Pic @ Nicky Emmerson

Recently I’ve become one of those people, who actually get up in the morning and go to work and get paid every once in a month. Boring. I’m thinking about quitting but I’m afraid it might turn into a bad habit and on the other hand I haven’t been in the possession of cash for a very long time. Also - the eternal attendance in job interviews was starting to freak me out. At one of my interviews, the woman literally asked me; “if you had to be an animal, what would you be?” and I simply answered “a sheep”. Stupid answer, but it was a stupid question.

“Oh, do you think you’re stupid?” she replied.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say than “no…”.  Unfortunately I hesitated. Truth is, I might be a bit stupid in some cases. I just figured that wouldn’t really be a great thing to say at a job interview.

I think it’s Monday today and I’ve just got home from work. I lock myself into my room and make sure to close the door behind me to reduce the sound of my laughing flat mates having an (apparently funny) conversation in the kitchen. My floor is all invaded by Spanish people. The only English word I’ve ever heard coming out of their mouth is “hello”. I guess that’s not the worst thing to say if you had to limit your English vocabulary down to one single word. They’re a kind of annoying but also a kind of alright. Though, I do have a problem with this one guy that I try to keep on a distance. Once I accidently let him see me wearing nothing but a T-shirt and my briefs. I was standing in the hallway organizing my laundry on the clothes drier (that explains why I wasn’t wearing any pants), when I suddenly noticed that he was sitting in the kitchen watching me through the door. Embarrassed I ran into the bathroom and shut the door. That’s when I hear his footsteps coming closer and next thing I know he is grabbing the handle pushing it down. Luckily I'd locked the door. Scared that he might think that I was coming on to him, I now try to avoid him.

I casually throw today’s profits on the bed. Some plastic forks that I borrowed from Pret (That way I don’t have to spend money on washing liquid), and some toilet paper, which I accidently slipped into my bag at the restroom at Starbucks. As a wise man once said: If something is being handed to you for free in a locked room where nobody can see you, then you’re an idiot if you don’t take as much as you can carry!

In fact, this whole primitive way of living isn’t that bad. I’ve even been able to diminish my numerous showers into something that only happens occasionally rather than on every day basis. I haven’t even been to the Laundry for weeks. (Which is why I now dress like somebody whose luggage was lost in the airport.)

Later I’m meeting Mario downtown, my stout French male friend with African roots. Mario is one of those cool people with an unusual job that nobody really understands. He has tried to explain it to me more than once, and I’m still not quite sure what he actually do. Wait, correction: He’s grading diamonds. See, that’s not a real job.

Before I once again am going to expose myself to the depressing English weather I sit down for a moment and have a bite of food. I really need to pee, but some dude left his pubes on the toilet seat and I’ll definitely not be the one to remove them.

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