Well. Happy Birthday to me. Sixty-five. Seems like a significant number, though not in a good way. And so far there's been nothing significant about the day, other than getting a free coffee at Starbucks. (They actually knew it was my birthday before I did. I had forgotten).
Upon entering the parking lot, I met an Australian fellow. Very talkative bloke. He has been here off and on over the past decade, yet, as with many foreigners, he seems to have a generally negative view of Indonesia and Indonesians. Weird. One wonders why these people come here. Then again, maybe he has a negative view of Australia, too. But anyway, we talked for a while over a coffee, and our talk ended up giving me a considerable headache. This is a weird development with me over the past couple years (which I may as well blame on MS). It seems that the effort required for listening and speaking--conversing--overheats my brain or something. In a way, it is all so predictable, you know? The chit-chat, the usual complaints and observations, the necessary platitudes. Which is not to say this is the man's fault. It is the fault of my weary brain. And I realize just this moment that I may be staying around home more often these days not only because of the spirit dampening effect of physical pain but because of the stress of social interaction. I wish it weren't so, but I must admit to feeling less and less inclined to engage.
Well … maybe it's just the rainy weather.
Upon entering the parking lot, I met an Australian fellow. Very talkative bloke. He has been here off and on over the past decade, yet, as with many foreigners, he seems to have a generally negative view of Indonesia and Indonesians. Weird. One wonders why these people come here. Then again, maybe he has a negative view of Australia, too. But anyway, we talked for a while over a coffee, and our talk ended up giving me a considerable headache. This is a weird development with me over the past couple years (which I may as well blame on MS). It seems that the effort required for listening and speaking--conversing--overheats my brain or something. In a way, it is all so predictable, you know? The chit-chat, the usual complaints and observations, the necessary platitudes. Which is not to say this is the man's fault. It is the fault of my weary brain. And I realize just this moment that I may be staying around home more often these days not only because of the spirit dampening effect of physical pain but because of the stress of social interaction. I wish it weren't so, but I must admit to feeling less and less inclined to engage.
Well … maybe it's just the rainy weather.
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