Friday, April 18

Back to boring.

Small rush of adrenaline, lasted for two days pehaps. It was a fun two days. Then follows dissapointment. It never leads to anything. It's meaningless. They don't even bother to pay me anymore. I'm a last resort celebrity, when even their own lives are so boring that my welldocumented boredom becomes semi-less-boring. I offered them the real juicy gossip for money before, but they declined, so this time I didn't even bring it up and they didn't ask so it was just the same old story basically. On the skip'n'flip side. The page you hastily ogle in disgust on your way from the article about the talkshowhosts new kitchen to the playboygirls cooking tabloid. There I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Brought back memories though. Been thinking about when me and my dad went to Brussels in 2010. He should have turned 66 on April 16 if he had still been alive. He almost died in the hotelroom and on the plane, but kept himself going until we got home, until Christmas, until New Years, until my birthday, then he gave up, ten days after my birthday.
He drank all the beer in the hotelroomfridge, to shock the system. He was afraid to die there, got nervous about the possibility. When I went to the TV studio to do the interview he went out walking in the city and tried to score some speed. Unsuccessfully though. He should have come to the studio with me instead. They brought me coffee in the loge with some white powder floating around.
- Did they give you cocaine?
He asked when we watched the interview on tv in the hotelroom later that night.
- Mm, not that I noticed.
- You don't look like yourself, you eyes are so staring.
- I'm just focused.
Then he mumbled something. We had a door between our rooms that was open at first, but then I closed it once to get a little privacy to make some phonecalls and after that the door couldn't be opened again.
Well, I suppose there was some symbolism in that too. We had to use the front doors instead. Running around in the hallways, leaving the doors open, getting worried about thieves, living on the edge.

My dad took this photo of me when he came to visit after he and my mother had divorced. I kept staring at the easterdecorations, ignoring my fathers questions, dreaming, in my own world. They had probably drugged me and threatened me to keep quiet. The horrors of my childhood had just begun.

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