Rumplestitchkin in Ramallah, Day II
Murphy is wide awake. As am I. Although perhaps not as wide as the proverbial fat lady, given that she didn't sing until about six this morning when I conveyed the Rumplestitchkins to their respective abodes. Rock n Roll, you know how it is.
It's seven o'clock now. Day two of a long week. After an hour's catnap I chase away the night, reluctantly, with fried eggs and a cold shower, concentrating hard to make sure one is ingested, the other applied externally and not the other way around.
"That the best you can do?" mocks the Muse of Darkness, and I go "Yes," shooting an unblinking glare that could strip the paint off old furniture. Or so I imagine. Don't try this at home.
"Who are you to mock the cousin of death?" I hear.
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About this blog Ramallah for Real
A young Belgian's tales and observations on daily life in the West Bank as an NGO employee, by Tom Kenis.
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