My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.Note: Wilde said this in the Left Bank hotel in Paris where he passed away on November 30, 1900. The wallpaper has also since gone and the room re-furnished in the style of one of Wilde's London flats.
It's been nearly a month since lighting up this page with some new characters. I apologize, for those who are avid readers of this, and rest gingerly on every word printed (of which, there are none, I am sure). I speak to a cross-section of my audience that is yet non-existent. The warming of the weather has diminished my mental capacity much like global warming has steamed the snow caps off mountains in south america.Easy story for the day: About three weeks ago, the lock to my bicycle lost its function of opening, in what seemed a permanent protest. My bike was chained to a pole in front of a rather swank department store in Lincoln Park (the type that plays clubbing music at 2 PM in the afternoon, looks very European, and has employees that don't seem to do anything but look imposingly hip.) And there was my sticker-clad bicycle, imprisoned by the retired lock, directly in front of the king-sized, glass paneled front doors to club-land. Resolution: I walked to home depot, purchased the largest bolt cutter available for 50 dollars, and stole my bicycle. While I was in the act of stealing, a teacher I happen to know walked by and pretended not to know me. I tried to explain by shouting out something about the broken lock and lofting these giant red bolt cutters in the air, but it was to no avail. I rescued my bike, returned the bolt cutters, and a few days later, at school, I explained to the teacher precisely what had happened. (all is well, friends.)
Fresjitoes
