The thoughts that pops into your head in the pointless shade of an awning, late at night after all the geriatric neighbourhood have long gone to bed. The randomness of it, all the deaths, all the lives, everything that took place to make me wind up here in the pointless shade. The sun will set at 22:43 and come back up again 03:55 around these parts of the planet this time of year. Nineteen hours of shade tomorrow too.

All this.

Gastrostomy and how perhaps I can start eating my meals while he’s having his, and that dinners will take 45 minutes instead of the usual two hours and that he is definitely having one of those, possibly even this year.

There is noone before me, noone after me. I am the last in line. The bloodline going back to the 16th century Spain, Lapps and the heartland of Norway ends whenever I end. 19 people bears my surname right now. I thought about my very distant relative who died childless in a mine in Saskatchewan 150 years ago.

The suited female consultant from the multinational mega-corporation couldn’t resist asking. Three months of smoking break chit-chat had revealed everything and she couldn’t help herself. She asked.

“So who’s ironing your shirts?”

I thought about all the vomit I wiped off his clothes last night and the 32 hours of spastic sleepless fits before that. Is it culturally possible for a woman in the western hemisphere to be sexist? Of course not. Not with Judging Amy on national broadcasting and foreign magazines revealing effective blowjob techniques on page 86, right after the cake recipes. Break through the glass ceiling and wave goodbye to the sucker stuck behind his personal one a bit to the left of where yours was.

Raking in the dough while doing what I like more than most other things. True? They pay me for 13 years of experience without regard for whether I like doing it or not. But I like it and that’s why my mother always tells me I should feel ashamed. It’s the pious way we Norwegians go about our lives. My sweet sweet revenge was dubbing my line of work a craft. That way I’m more in line with the auto mechanics and farmers that came before me. Jante’s Law. The paychecks are the same, but I’m very afraid of being found out.

I thought of the unbearable ease which the words flows through the keyboard in my native language and the endless agony of writing something worth reading in english. I thought about vocabulary and I thought about JohnnyGoodyear and the coffee they sell in cardboard cups on 40th street in New York. And cognac. Yeah, that too.

I thought about trips to England without any wheelchairs and about being in the bathroom for as long as I like. Maybe even sleep until nine. Smoking in bed. No rustling anywhere. Ben Webster on the radio.

All the TV-shows I never saw since last May. The friends I met. The time I got stood up and that it was the last time I ever heard anything.

The new apartement I bought today, I thought a little about that as well. But you might not want to hear about it. Not now.

Enjoy the drink, Kemosabe, cause it’s not supposed to make any sense or mean anything. It’s all random.

Good night.

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