If you were curious just how fucked my sleep schedule was, or if you thought I was exaggerating about the Anne Hathaway thing, then you should know that I woke up at 11:30 PM. Like, that’s when today started. It started before the technical day started. God knows when I actually fell asleep, but I really need to stop convincing myself that siestas are a good idea. On the bright side, this meant that I was able to enjoy another sunrise. I’m begrudgingly starting to enjoy the peaceful walks through the city before the sane people take to the streets. I stopped at another café and was able to order with relative ease, as I have started to understand that they run on something of an honor system; you take whatever pastry you want and tell the cashier when you check out. That shit would not fly in the States.
The clouds started to break about halfway through breakfast, transforming the sky into a divine landscape. Trying to take advantage of the momentarily gorgeous weather, I grabbed a book, went out by the canal, and set up on the only unoccupied bench on the vista. I have been reading Fitzgerald’s final completed novel, and nothing makes you feel quite as inadequate as a writer as reading an English language legend. About a chapter in, a rouge guitar player set up across the canal and began his set with “Dust in the Wind” (I don’t feel like looking up the correct way to cite a song. If that offends you, I’ll happily give you your money back you fucking prick). That was a little too poignant for sober me, but as someone who obsesses over background music in media, I found it oddly comforting. The only thing that would have made the song more apropos, would have been if I were reading “Across the River and into the Trees” (which you should definitely go buy and read right now. Hemingway is dope. Venice is dope) (if these are too many parenthetical asides, you may want to go find another blog, asshole) (I’ve clearly pulled out of my self-loathing and shifted that feeling to hypothetical readers).
The weather and the weekend converged to fill the streets with people. The bench didn’t stay unoccupied for long. Multiple couples, families, and random assortments of humans assailed my privacy as I read. All whispered in Italian as I restrained myself from telling them that they could yell in my ear and it would have the same consequence. Instead, I just chose to believe that they all wanted to sleep with me. What’s a man without unjustified confidence?
Relatively unrelated aside: I keep seeing Mile High Club Girl (relatively self-explanatory, but the real story is so much better than you uniformed people are imagining) everywhere. I’m not entirely sure if this is because of some unresolved psychological issue with her, or if it’s because I’m starting to become even more racist towards white people (I’m white, don’t worry. Also, don’t ask) and starting to convince my eyes that they all look the same.
I went back to Pinch tonight. I cannot stress the convenience of this place enough. I walked in around 5 and plopped myself onto the closest seat by the door, immediately requesting a Manhattan and an English menu, as I hadn’t eaten yet. I was incredulous as the waitress informed me that cocktails were not served until 6. As my central nervous system, liver, and self-esteem (in that order) started to process this very disappointing fact, I settled on a beer and what appeared to be a glorified ham sandwich. How wrong my little American brain was. This bitch came out with fresh mozzarella oozing out of the sides, heaped with ham on fresh focaccia, and stacked with tomatoes for days. That and 2 Guinness’s put me in a solid place. Thankfully, that bar doesn’t operate on solid, and decided that tapas (I have since been informed by a trusted confidant that in Italy they are referred to as apertivos) were in order. Not only that, but they inexplicably played “Frosty the Snowman” and the song Kanye sampled for “Touch the Sky” back to back. Three courses, and three Manhattan’s later I was in heaven. In fact, the only reason I left was because I heard Jesus whisper “It’s all downhill from here.,” after downing the last of my third vermouth-laced rye. I also believe He picked up most of my tab, as the bartender (Fabio again. My God that name never gets old) only charged me 15 Euros.
I’m back at the apartment and winding the night down as I attempt to get my shit together. I’m trying to go to sleep at an hour that is at least somewhat logical to normal people and wake up at a time that doesn’t scream, “HOLY FUCK STOP MAINLINING METH.” Anyway, just a heads up for all 2 of you reading these: tomorrow’s post is probably going to be all philosophical and preachy. I strongly advise you to skip it, or get very drunk and click anyway just to indulge me. I appreciate either course of action. Goodnight motherfuckers. (Buona note stra-fottutos. I’m getting so good at this.)