Le Crime de Quirkity Quirk

Yesterday evening a feeble, weary Quirk waddled out of the village's wee public library, with splendid plunder. Cautiously, she leaned against the wall, examining the street. 
"Trust no one, " her plastic bag said.

Indeed, the library was crowded and the a/c did not cool, but why be petty, when on a folding table in the narrow hall, hundreds of books were up for adoption? 
Our tiny library will shortly be moving to a grand abode, and to do it properly and enter the new residence with style, they're shooing away all the crippled, old books. Books that no one wants. No one, but a few mad quirks.

I had to arm wrestle a woman to win Conrad's Victory.  I kicked a man's ankle, just to cause a slight distraction and stealthily sneak Anatole France's Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard, into my sleeve. This last operation was slightly difficult, though, due to my sleeveless tank top.
Still, who's counting? 
Le Crime de Quirkity Quirk was a crime of passion, and for that I imagine that in some countries I wouldn't even have to do time. 
A 1968 edition of  Around the World in Eighty Days, solely for its hilarious cover, featuring an illustrated scene from what the front page refers to as "a movie extravaganza." 
I stood silent for a long moment, reflecting with a 1958 edition of David Howarth's We Die Alone cradled next to my heart. I must have shed a million  tears over this book, perhaps more, as a child.  
A weary copy of Hardy's Mayor of Casterbridge was also rescued from an unfortunate future in the grinder; and the list goes on.

The village's librarian, a woman in her early sixties, with whom the Quirk has a strong alliance, helped disguize the rescued books as trash, throwing them into a huge plastic bag.  The Quirk, a woman with some sense of style, didn't even blink.  She was a woman on a mission, and actions speak louder than words and really, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, not to mention that people who live in glass houses should never cast stones. Really. It's unhealthy.

The Quirk saw Bob. Bob saw the Quirk. There was a long silent moment and a strong sense of the bond between them. That moment passed. and after that, everything happened so fast, that it could fit perfectly into a 30 sec. commercial, and have enough time for credits. A red beat up Hunda raced around the corner, breaking abruptly not half a centimeter before the Quirk's feet. A small blonde with an annoying tan jumped out of the car, while inside all hell broke loose. Four funky midgets in the back seat gave way to exhilaration while the sturdy blonde grabbed the Quirk's arm and dragged her over to Bob. 
Thus begins chapter Two, Quirks, which we shall name: 
        
                                                                       The Abduction.

Leaning against Bob's steering wheel, the brave Quirk shivered like a sick leaf, while the blonde, snickering, interrogated her sans mercy. "What's in the bag, Quirk?" the woman repeatedly asked.
The Quirk bit her lips and knew, deep in her heart,  that if she doesn't meet a loo soon, she will experience a deja vous all over again, from that time when she was four and mommy was late to pick her up.  Alright, alright, I'll tell you, stop pestering me! the brave Quirk said.  She knew that blonde. She knew that if this woman ever finds out what the platic bag contained, it will all be over in a splash. "
It's pasta, dude. Home. Made. Pasta," the fearless Quirk said, while the woman, tough cookie that she is, kicked the bag. 
Only Quirks can hear the heartbreaking squeak hurt books squack. [shutup!]
The Quirk's heart missed a beat, while her mind raced. One of these books will undoubtedly need some stitches, a single gray cell said. 
"Ahhhh, pastaaarrrrrr...good! We're in luck! " the vicious woman said. "Start your engine, Quirk. We're embarking on a journey you will never forget," she said. "Around the village in eighty seven secs." 

It was late when the Quirk was set free. Some of her books were not as lucky. The blonde took one look at the quirk's plastic bag and within a fraction of a light year confiscated the creme de la creme.
Evil witch, that Iris is.

Slowly but surely, sweating blood and shedding tears, I'm completing my romantic education. I've watched "Love, Actually" yesterday evening, and I think I'm improving because I didn't get very annoyed with the horrible performance and the awfully trite, cheesy script.
I didn't say it didn't bother me, yo. I just said I didn't get extremely annoyed by it.

And before any of you starts nudging me about that paper due Monday, and the final doom come Sunday, I say : Don't mess with me, monkey.
A girl needs her distractions, else, she will  wither away and wilt.

Today I'm taking Bob out. I intend to surprise the evil car with a quick bath. Then, we're going to the famous chinese doctor who is not really chinese at all, but who's counting. I'll park Bob next to his joke of a car, (Japanese, actually.) and  change into the white cotton Thai pants and white sleeveless tank top, standing on one foot in the tiny bathroom, trying to balance myself without touching the walls, where cobwebs dangle mysteriously, and not a spider in sight.
We'll talk for an hour or so, sitting next to a dining table that bravely imitates a desk.
I will cry, and he will take notes using a long white pencil, and offer me soft pink tissues to wipe the tears away,
from a big flowery box.
Then I'll glide into the room, tip toeing on the white soft mattresses that cover a gigantic oriental rug. I will lay my weary body down and  absorb the heat and pretend I'm lying on the beach in the Sinai desert, or Thailand, while he sticks needles in all the right places and speaks softly in exactly the right tone.

Yes, that paper will have to wait a little longer still,  for after I leave the chinese doctor, who isn't  at all chinese, I'm going to have tea with Iris and her man.  A girl needs her friends, at times like this. A girl needs to be pampered with hot, sweet herb tea, and fruit and cookies and the merry sounds of children tearing each other's throats.
And then a girl needs to take her clean car home, feed the dogs, the cats, herself perhaps.
And a girl then simply must sit at her desk and write a paper, even though she is dying to crawl into bed and lose touch with reality; even though she may wish to broaden her romantic horizons with yet another romantic cliche` of a film, even though it has been a while since she was a girl.  But still.

[No]
Sex in the Village

So The Groom has been away since zee 1st of June, quirks.  It is now mid July and there is yet an entire month to wait until my needs will be met.

I can't get no. No, seriously, people. I'm like an inmate locked in confinement. Solitary confinement.

I have no sex life.

I watch "Mystic River," and lust for Sean Penn, that's how bad it is. 
I nearly ran over an incredibly sexy man yesterday, who was taking an evening run. That's how frustrated I am.
"You're hot, dude. You don't deserve to live."
And I can't fucking get any. Sleep.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, The Groom is getting impatient, too.
 "What are you wearing," he now says over the phone, instead of a courteous 'hello.'

I'm afraid our sex life will never be the same after this.

I'm feeling so low today, and I don't even know why. I'm tired and cranky, and everything makes me sad.
Everything.
I've spent the afternoon sprawled on the sofa, watching "The Horse Whisperer," and damnit, I wept through it like a hungry baby, or a drunken fool.  Can I sink any  lower, do you think ?
I mean, bloody hell, Quirks! The bloody Horse Whisperer!

No. I didn't think so either.

I am bitterly sorry  for exposing you all to this. I mean, where are the days when humor used to reside in Quirkia? Where? 
I don't know. I even thought that perhaps posting today wasn't a good idea, in fear of scaring away the few brave souls reading still. 

I have nothing to say. I feel overwhelmed with shallowness and sadness; exhausted. My body feels awkward. Everything seems dull and gray. 

Yes, yes. Tomorrow is another day.
Next thing you know, I'll turn the living room curtains into a ball gown.

Don't cry for me

Argentina

The truth is,

I'll be back tomorrow

I think.