Yesterday I finished 26 years. I went to work twelve-hour change, and already at the first break, burst. I sat outside the pub writing a diary and poryczalam like a debil. In January, my dad died, my first birthday without him ... even though I am far away, I had a habit of calling him a birthday just to me paid a wishes. I can not call ...
I remember that after their stay in Poland, I returned to work as if nothing had happened, smiling ... pierdolnieta. I thought ... will be good, I'm strong. Nothing is good, I'm standing behind the bar, and serves customers off, it all turned to some mechanical reflexes. I stand and pour beer in the meantime, watching people, listening to their shallow conversations and wondering what they feel and look in the mirror.
Someone read your last started my blog, about whom frankly I forgot ... And on the same back here I looked, I returned to my old posts yet in 2008. Jesus do not know what happened to me, I have a feeling like I was no longer able to write as if that crazy czaesc I died, though I no longer had absolutely nothing to say. No, I do not like this state of affairs, it is tiring and strofujace. But wyadaje me that it's part of London so fucking works, the rest is all you probably already happened to me, unfortunately, by this almost a year. Cap to the max ....
