One thing that I find difficult about keeping a blog here in New York, and one of the reasons I haven’t been virtually consistent (or existent, for that matter) this summer, is that the things that are transpiring in my daily life concern people who I see consistently. When one is abroad, the majority of one’s readership is in a galaxy, or at least a country, far, far away, and thus easily entertained without being generally affected. In other words, the exploits described are pure entertainment as opposed to gossip vivant. It would have been not just incriminating but crass had wantonness gone down, especially if aforementioned encounters had transpired with one or more individuals who many or may not be on the same payroll as I; you know?
Another example: Let’s say I so desire to adorn my body in a permanent way. I proceed to an institution known for administering such bodily decoration, where those who perform said transfusions of ink have a tendency to fit a stereotype that augments the concupiscence of this writer. Shit goes down, alcohol is imbibed, good times roll, and it is ergo through the rain I must tear the morning after, up Third Avenue in a torrential downpour, still trashed, mind you, in order to get to work on time. It would be unprofessional to publicize the fact that the reason for my tardiness was not, in fact, cramps and night terrors leading to sleeplessness but rather leaving the house in a DTF mentality and doing just that.
Finally, we can’t ignore the fact that a large percentage of my Mexico-era blog posts concerned a certain relationship in and with which I was mired and enveloped and enamored. As we’re still on good terms, I didn’t think it would be prudent to immediately start scrawling out the sexploits in a flashy way.
But, como dice el dicho, “Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss, and ends with a teardrop.” The tears were dropped, all over. The show must go on. Get back on the horse. Or the pen. Or the guy. Just get on. And, hopefully, off.