It's like something romantic the day after. The potpourri is still in the tub, but careless euphoria circumvented whomever from cleaning the bathroom. A room full of the odious smells of stale beer and grounded smoke rather than the cheerful laughter and easy warmth of it's former occupants. Minor tragedy and subtle decay. The foolhardy drawing on the wall now winks a sinister grimace where it used to grin. Even the mundane contingent of dirty dishes, caked with dried up rice grains that were never quite finished, mock me. It's like the feeling that you should be home even though you don't have a telephone and nobody ever comes by.
That's what the taste in the back of my throat is like right now: Seedy, quite simply. It's a devil I know, though, so I take what comfort I can from it, like a loyal slave. The bakery didn't even fix it. Maybe I need a vacation from my own grumbly, hung-over self. A week of detox and a few gym sessions. Back to vegetarianism and non-smoking.
Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrm.
