[boing, boing, boing, boing...]

Today my head feels a bit... heavy. Nah, it ain't the worry or the tiredness of the trip kicking in, it's the sudden heat washing over the country after days and days of cold fronts turning our nails naturally blue and hanging icicles of our eyelashes. nToday I dressed up like every day, with layer over layer of clothes and a nice, thick wool poncho-like ... thing over a red knitted sweater over a rosewood, long sleeved shirt... and now it's so freaking hot my hair is melting. Damned, how I hate heat.

Work trickles down slowly, and this generalized heaviness weighing over one's forehead and eyes, where the pressure seems to kiss the poor vibe into you, makes you escape from even the simplest and most basic of tasks. You simply want to roll over and sleep next to a beer bottle under a palmtree lulled by the ocean. The amount of fluids I'm drinking is quite admirable, specially because it includes a liter of water. Me. Water. Yeah, that should give you an idea of the situation. It is Friday and that should put us all in a rather festive mood, but hell if this Friday isn't one of the longest ones in the history of mankind! Each minute seems to take at least a quarter of hour to pass. In a few minutes... or not so few, I'll be free. Free, free, free... to join the traffic jam that will only improve my building headache, that will make my trip home all the more straining.

It is even probable that I won't be able to see NCIS tonight, for I can't asure anyone that I'll be able to keep myself awake all the way to 7 pm. Yeah, talk about that.

The Internet has been on and off all day, making it hard to do anything with it, making you wonder what on Earth people did at the office when there was no Internet? Must have been so terribly boring... or "productive" in a seriously "tayloristic" way. If "the man who works with brute iron shall be as brute as the iron", then the "man who works at an office  shall be as dumb as it's access to the Internet". I left my book at home today, and I would have really, really enjoyed to grace my day a little with the notes of Maria Festetics about life in the court of Empress Sissi. I kind of love her writing, and her subjectivism is quite enjoyable.

In her entries you do feel the fact that she writes the journal to be later on read by many, to be published, and at some places it makes you wonder what would be her real feelings and thoughts. There's some self-glorifying, but what journal doesn't have those? The love and devotion to the Empress borders into unholly love that not one lesbian-lover would embrace passionately to the bosom. Comtess Maria is, without any trace of doubt, a complex and fascinating creature you can't stop reading. Well, you can, when you leave your book on the nightstand. Phew...

I'm addicted to books. I'm addicted to my journal, that's clear and undeniable, but I'm also painfully addicted to books, though I expect not to join no "retreat" to get me "clean". Yes, I love to read, and thick books with extensive chapters do not threaten me. Hell, I read Ann Radcliffe! That's not something you see often nowadays, when celebrities "write" books about themselves (all of them with the colaboration of a professional writer because, really, do you expect them to write? You know, when you are famous and rich, you can afford to write a book without actually writing it, because you can pay someone to write it for you, and it will be a best seller.), and everything that comes from the polished shelves and counters of the media-friendly bookstores filled with CDs and DVDs is conveniently chaptered up into no-more-than-two-page segments and chapters so short anyone with serious ADD can run through it in one sitting.

People don't read. They think they do, but they don't.

I know someone from a book club, who has labeled me like "you, who like the big books". Yep, that's me. "Over 150 page book" Bunny.

So, here I was, with a flickering Internet, no book, a boyfriend struggling to talk to me through Google Talk and a question in my head: how the hell can I send something via sea to Hungary?

boing, boing, boing goes my head. Hectic? To say the least. I just want to get out of here.

This is how desperation-by-heat "reads" like.