In the holiday spirit of giving—which I’m still clinging to, rather stubbornly—I’m going to gift you folks religiously following my blog (religiously, for how else would you follow me?) with something only fancy schmancy travel sites provide.
If you’ve heard of Jamie Oliver, then you probably haven’t heard of me.
Shame on you. I’m only one of the world’s top chefs. The fact that you haven’t heard of my only goes to prove my theory—the corporate chef culture has worked for years to prevent me from bursting onto the world culinary stage. They don’t like independent thinkers, the kind of gastronomic geniuses who think outside the box and refuse to give up on gluten.
This morning, as I waited for my toothbrush to finish updating its directory, I couldn’t help wondering if the city bus I usually take to work would have finished upgrading its registry in time. There’s nothing worse than boarding a bus that’s in the middle of a major service pack upgrade.
If I really must kick the bucket (and, I suppose I really have to, at some point), then I’d like it to be a convenient and comfortable descent into the Eternal Nothingness. I want it to be in my bed, while I’m watching something funny on YouTube and eating out of a giant tub of popcorn. I love popcorn, and I fear they might not have it over on the Dark Side.
Being a Serbian of average looks is no easy task. Sometimes I feel like such an underachiever. A failure, almost. It’s hard to walk down the street here and avoid comparing yourself to hundreds of other women rubbing shoulders with you on the sidewalk. It’s a tall order just going to the supermarket, minding your own business, and then managing to get home without crying in the car because you looked like a frump compared to everyone else in the checkout line.
Once, as a child, I found an old book hidden behind the shelf in the living room. It was a weirdly-shaped soft-cover book called “Beginners Kung Fu,” and someone in the family had clearly been embarrassed about having purchased, or received it as a gift, at some strange point in his/her life. Inside was a “brief” history of Kung Fu, spread over the first twenty pages and printed in the smallest font known to humanity.
After days of terrible heat, with a nasty haze I’ve always hated draped over the sky like an ugly old dirty curtain, the weather changes abruptly with a delicious cool wind blowing hard from the Alps, I think. Yeah, the Alps, that’s it; they must be close to where I am.