Yesterday I took a trip to Greece, a pathway provided by a romantic comedy film. Today I am spending some time in Havana, Cuba with a man whose claim to fame is being disgusting by eating the most stomach exploding specimen. I wish I could walk down the music filled streets and sit with the locals like the host of this show. I wonder if this would go well given my dislike for other humans, not sure if it is dislike or fear mixed with anxiety. I usually sit in my apartment and avoid most contact with the outside world. I spy on the trash man who I am convinced is a part of the conspiracy that is cooked up in the building behind mine. I listen to the drunk people fight in the alley, and wonder how I was ever one of them. I get worn out after I spend 3 hours with a human that wants interaction, including my husband. I dream about traveling and sitting on beaches in flip flops drinking beer and getting to know people of the region, but earlier today I sprinted through the halls when I heard another apartment door open to avoid the possible human interaction. The woman caught me nonetheless. We chatted about how quiet the apartments are, and how there are enough cameras to personally watch each tenant. She chuckled about the craziness of our landlord and how she spots everything with those cameras, and doesn’t hesitate to call if you do not empty the lint remover in the laundry room. All through the conversation I was brimming on a panic attack wondering if this neighbor was going to continue talking, or worse ask a question. I couldn’t hear what she was saying because I was lost in thought about how I am sure the landlord can see in my apartment when I am in my underwear dancing and rapping to 50 cent. I am not sure how the rest of the convo went but I was torn out of my dream sequence by her saying “Well it was nice to meet you.” I went back into my place to calm down with a cigarette. I am back in Cuba now and am enthralled at the size of the cigars. The only point of reference I have is when you meet a real down to the bone stoner, which I am not at all. They always seem to have, or are making a giant blunt that is bound to send them to their floating graves. Well these cigars rival those. I now officially hate the host of this TV show. He is sitting on a tobacco farm smoking hand rolled cigars with the farmers. The best part of it is that there is a language barrier so chatty nonsense isn’t needed, they just enjoy. I wonder if the soup I left on the stove is burning….or where my husband is. I don’t practice Santeria…but apparently people in Cuba do. Lots of blood with Santeria. Anyway soup was fine I guess somebody finally told my stove the definition of “low.” No sign of my husband. Although I have a natural disdain for people having my husband come home makes me happy. I feel like a puppy when he comes home, I get all happy and want him to be happy as well. I make sure he is fed, then I tell him all I did while he was gone, which usually isn’t much. He laughs and shakes his head at my antics, he usually tunes me out when I go on about my advances in the “conspiracy of the elks” that is taking place across the alley. Eventually he settles down on the couch and watches TV while I yell at the little men that live in the empire on my computer that I am building to take over Persia. I live downtown on the second story of a building that houses a bar downstairs, the bar is also next door to a tattoo parlor. This makes sense when you see the tattoo work on the alcoholics of this town… I think I might move to Havana, I hope they are not sugar coating the political issues for this show.
