When I am sometimes tired of meeting people, it is because I feel being interviewed by many of them. If you and me ever meet, please tell me stories about yourself instead of going through my CV as if I had applied to be your husband. I haven’t, I won’t, and I really only wanted to drink a hot chocolate and have a cake together.
“Where are you from?”
“Europe.” Lucky Africans who can get away with such a general answer and aren’t quizzed with the follow-up question “which country?”, either because people believe Africa is a country or because they wouldn’t know the difference between Gambia and Gabon anyway. Maybe I should just say “Transwallonistan” from now on.
“What do you do?”
“I travel around the world. I read. I think. I write.”
“What a weirdo,” I can see in more than half the girls’ eyes, but on the way from…
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