Cornflakes and warm milk

I went into the hostel bathroom this morning and there was an abandoned towel hanging, dankly, from the centre of the shower rail, a soggy match by the sink, a mound of cigarette ash on the floor, and a large piece of carefully scrunched toilet roll positioned in a hole in the wall.

I don’t understand.

There has been no peace to be had, even in sleep. I spent last night fending off horny monkeys and creepy weirdos,  while the Tegus students sitting at either side of me demanded serious political conversations.

That night i dreamt i was walking through a park, carrying teacups to a children’s tea party, all the while pursued by a randy German trying to convince to have sex with him in the bushes.

After awakening from this horror, recalling the horrors of the previous evening, and finding the mild horrors in the bathroom, i cowered in my room for over an hour, hungover, faffing, and muttering to myself.

Cheese tortillas were on my mind, but by the time i made it to the kitchen in search of sustenance, i had not the strength for cooking.

Cornflakes and warm milk it was to be.

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