"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>brussel sprouts

>except here, they just call them “sprouts.”

rereading the past few entries . . . fuck i’m scrappy.

speaker’s corner, the hostel owner, assholes on the street . . . do i like fighting? is there something about me that incites it in others?

it’s been really hard to lift my spirits here in brussels. when you stay in hotels, you don’t meet anybody, and i have no one to talk to really. i did my bus tour this morning (they forgot to make me pay for it, which is good, because it was disappointing. i’m such a thief.), and then walked around and around the narrow streets.

cobblestones make my feet ache, but i can’t imagine anything else under my toes. they rise and fall through the winding roads.

everything here, from the architecture to the people, is a memory of a memory. wreckage upon wreckage. disaster upon disaster.

14th century gothic towers, good-luck gilt sculptures you rug for good luck, a pissy boy who is the city’s emblem, parisian-esque cafés, patio waiters who inhale the girls as they pass, street performers in elaborate get-ups blowing ‘hit the road jack’ on saxophones, kids riding on dad’s shoulders, balloon animals, pin-wheels, musical festivals in large public squares, odd-sounding police & ambulance sirens echoing through the districts.

i popped into a church 1000 years old, but if you’ve seen as many ancient churches as i have in the past year, you’ve seen them all.

connection lost, wires cut, electricity severed.

feeling restless, i went to the central train station to reserve all my seats for the upcoming 7 weeks on the eurail. my interaction with the man behind the ticket wicket was lively, fun, and boisterous. put me in a better mood.

giggle and tease.

reminded me that i’m not a bitch. shit happens in life, it’s no one’s fault.

as i left the station, there was finally a bounce in my step.

sang along to mobile’s “outta my head.” smiled at a dread-locked backpacker. used up the batteries on my camera. window-shopped. played with gadgets and oddities sold by street vendors. grew hungry. ate cherries.

stained lips and fingertips.

patio waiters here are ravenous, ballistic, governed by pheromones. in the space of 2 minutes i was approached and sexually harrassed FIVE TIMES.

“voulez vous boire quelque chose avec moi? une mauresque? un kir? assiez-vous avec moi chérie!”

“non, je ne bois pas d’alcool.”

“ben, mangez quelque chose avec moi, chérie! ici sur mon patio! restez ici!”

“non, je n’ai pas faim.”

“voulez vouz m’accompagner ce soir? on pourrait dancer ensemble!”


one waiter blocked my path, wouldn’t let me pass, and actually grabbed my wrist at this point.

“que vous etes sexy, mais pourquoi pas?”


i shoved them away and didn’t look back.

all the waiters together – “oooooooooooooooooooo!”


yeah, i’m a scrapper.

can’t i just be a faceless tourist for once? a ghost, completely anonymous?

as much as i talk about sex on here (which is quite often), it’s always in good humour, nothing sexual should ever be taken too seriously. it’s all a joke, something we do for fun like rollerblading, only we look like complete morons when we do it.

the other day on myspace, i received an email message from a man describing his particulars to me, lavishing me with physical compliments, insisting we meet, and then adding, “by the way, i’m married.”

first of all, since when did myspace become a fucking dating service?

secondly, if he had actually taken the time to read my profile, he might have taken the time to consider the futility in indecently propositioning a feminist.

i wrote back, “go home and kiss your wife’s feet for putting up with someone like you. no thanks.”

i’ve seen what cheating does to a family. and how in the messiest of ends, the women are the ones left broken.

hasn’t anyone seen fatal attraction?

anxiously awaiting luxembourg in a few days . . . and especially amsterdam after that.


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