Casting no shadow.

Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
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Trip End Ongoing


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Flag of Nicaragua  ,
Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Apparently there is some kind of holiday happening here.  That explains why it sounds like Helmand Province in the streets.  Some of these firecrackers are like mortars.  This is based on my extensive knowledge of mortars playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare on the Xbox.  I'm starting to get pretty pissed at the locals who think it's hilarious when they witness me jumping out of my skin every time a rocket goes off.  Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.  Har, har har.  I feel justified staying in and locking the door.

Well now, this is interesting.  Actually it isn't; because I've done nothing today at all.  NOTHING I TELL YOU!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAH!

'cough'

Nothing except shuffle around eating a pork burrito. 

However I am referring to a curious incident in the night time.  Remember that Frenchman I mentioned a few entries ago?  The one that society clearly forgot and was languishing in the Naked Tiger drug hostel?  The one who decided to fire into the girl I liked?  He stumbles up to me and slurs apologies.  He attempts to convey condolences for the passing of my parents.  He checks with me to see if it was OK to have bedded this girl.  He then precedes to tell me how f**king annoying she was and he couldn't actually stand her.  At great length he lambasts both her and her friends.  He pulls no punches.  Does he think we'll suddenly strike up a friendship again with this banter?  Is it now; AFTER you've shagged the girl that "bro's before hoe's" applies?  What kind of moron is this?  With that awkward smile and nod you give when someone is talking total balls, I think back to the night in question.  The mind was a little hazy; but I imagine that the conversation went something like this:

"Sorry to hear about your parents."

"No worries man, thanks, life goes on"

"Yeah...is it OK if I screw the girl you came with?"

I of course embellish with a little poetic license, but I'm sure you'll forgive me.  You get the idea.

Now I'm no oil painting, but choosing this thing propping himself up on my shoulder over me is questionable.  Maybe it's because I don't have a hairy face.  Still it's done, dusted, in the past and time to move on.  I shall labour the point no more.  I need to get plasters for my bleeding hands from playing the bongos. 





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