There’s this secret place where the kids from my school go to do sex stuff or whatever, cause its 2012, and apparently they call it “Chocolate City.” And there are a lot of reasons why that’s gross and funny and weird, but my immediate reaction was like, “YOU NAMED IT AFTER THE PARLIAMENT RECORD?!” And they had no idea what I was talking about, so they just kept running around and throwing pencils and rocks and junk at each other and then I spaced out and started thinking about stuff. Like maybe there were kids in the 1970′s in Saint Laurent with afros and rollerskates and cool junk like that, who named the place Chocolate City because they just had to have that funk. If so, those kids were so boss! And maybe they’re grown up now, how old would they be?  Are they still boss? That’d be fun for me if we all hung out and played dominoes with beers. But also, why the hell are my students telling me about their weird sex place? And am I supposed to tell someone? And if so, will Chocolate City be shut down forever? And if so, do I really want that kinda bad press? Also, how do I give French children detention? Because I totally don’t know how, and they know I don’t know so it’s all a hilarious inside joke for us. I got a new haircut from this barbershop and the guy used the buzzer for the WHOLE THING so I look like a total rube, and this new Dutch bicycle only has one speed and it’s way too easy so I pedal super fast all the time like a cartoon. We laugh and laugh and chaos reigns and reigns…

I’m smoking out of my window at 3:42 AM (alarm set for 6:23) and the rain outside is constant enough that it’s bled out all of the other sounds. I’m not allowed to teach English as an assistant here again, I’m limited to two terms, but that’s ok. I’m no teacher really. I only like it because I don’t know the first thing about it, and if I did it all the time it wouldn’t be funny anymore. More often than not, the thing that’s scary, like really scary-in the uneasy big way-is that maybe, maybe I don’t really like anything. Bobby Charles is playing (the Chess Collection) and I’m just going to read Harry Potter in French because I don’t like anything. I like swimming, from the memory of the feeling, from when I was younger, and I like wine and rum and cold beer and cheese and fresh bread out of the oven and fucking. And it’s nice when you’re peeling an orange and you already know it’s going to be one of the good ones and not that terrible dry kind, that’s good. And television is good, or good at being bad. And I like Jeeves stories a whole hell of a lot but I sure don’t like working.

I want mystery. I don’t like the idea of you not being around. I want new hideouts after the old ones have been shut down, and I wish we were friends. I wish my computer could talk. We could all stand to be closer, or much much farther apart and I wish there was a new sea under the sea we have now and in the new sea there were dinosaurs.