Thorny Times

So, I woke up and January's almost over. This month has been a plague of humdrum missions and bad news. David Bowie is dead. Alan Rickman is dead. Half of my brain cells are dead. My dreams are dead. My fingertips are numb with the cold and my feet hide under the blanket as I blankly stare into the laptop screen. My stomach yearns for herby potato cakes and I can't tell if it's afternoon or evening because it's always dark and dim. 

Most people I miss I won't see anytime soon. Everyone else either bores me or annoys me. It's been now a year ever since I have left my small town in Portugal and moved to dirty old Dublin. One year. Time outruns everything, maybe even the speed of light. My relationship with this city had its ups and (melt)downs but apart from those greasy Centra breakfast rolls that I thought my liver would be able to process, I regret nothing.

I still find myself gazing at the Liffey whenever I cross a forever pretty Ha'penny Bridge. I still smile at the Moore St vendors and the butcher's jokes regarding my weekly meat needs still manage to make me giggle. The city never looks the same twice and there is always a pub around the corner I haven't set foot in yet. Sometimes I hate the tourists, the crowds, even some of the buskers. At the end of the day, I just want to go home and listen to Chet Baker after a long shower, Paddy & Ginger Ale by my side.

When I came to Ireland, I didn't have a house, a gang of friends or even the certainty of a job waiting for me. The step I took was a risky one but I kinda feel proud of my working class ass since I never had a trust fund, a sugar daddy or rich parents to pay for my rent, my luxury soaps, my hospital bills and my lobster bruschettas. Like a friend of mine once said, until the bad things catch up with the good things, let's keep on living it.