Narcissisme

Everywhere I looked yesterday, I saw something that reminded me of my real life and the real people in it. That is to say, life beyond spending 12 hours with Chris and some guy we met on Tuesday.
Yesterday might not have been the best idea, but it was fun.
Many things I or others seem to do: not a good idea but it was fun.

(Maybe I’m more tolerant here, but bathroom graffiti is infinitely more interesting.)

Reflecting upon my day on the tube to Brixton, I looked up at the advertisings and saw “THIS IS JUST TO SAY” in bold, but I didn’t have my glasses on. Chris walked over and told me it was something about plums and I was like “NO WAY HOW DID HE GET HERE FROM NEW JERSEY.” Because it seemed so odd for this to be on the walls instead of ads about getting loans or breast enlargements or footballs teams. I wanted to take a picture.

In Brixton– don’t even know why the fuck we were there– we walked past a number of pubs I was aching to go inside. It was so cold. It looked like Jersey City. It smelled like an old seaport.
One pub we walked by was blasting Sam Cooke’s “Don’t Know Much About History”. (Bliss.) Another pub was full of old working class men and their wives and we decided not to go in because we’d be stabbed. We never found the place we were looking for, and we never asked anyone for directions.
A man on the street was playing “Careless Whisper” with his saxophone.

Earlier in the day, when Chris and I had the entire New Cross Inn to ourselves (Mark unlocked the backdoor), I was being the jukebox DJ. I put on Squeeze and Elvis Costello because I was thinking of all the things Liz would have to say to me if she saw me on one of my moral lows.

I won’t even go into what we did in Camden.