Home alone (reloaded)

Today I came back home only to realise I was home alone. "Fuck", I thought. I could have invited some chicks to have dinner and chat. Then I realised I had no chicks to invite.

So I did what every man who's been home alone has done some time or another: I put a CD on the hi-fi, turned the volume quite high, and went straight into the bathroom. It was wild, it was Eric Clapton playing Ain't gonna give up on love, from the CD A Tribute to Stevie Rai Vaughan. And well, I was about to get into the shower when I realised I just couldn't bother to listen to that heavenly guitar mixed with the noise of the water falling down my naked body.

So I step out of the shower, and planted myself before the hi-fi, right in the middle of the dinning hall. And man... I let myself go. Completely naked except for my dirty socks, I danced, I pretended I had a guitar on me, I pretended my hands were Clapton's. Louder, louder! I turned the volume up to the top. I was deaf. I was Eric. I sang, I moved, I danced. I felt every chord inside me, every string. I was laughing inside, I was so happy.

The song finished, and I shaved. Then I had a shower and treated my facial skin with some mostourizers and exfoliants from Nivea (there's no Lush around in Barcelona, and Body Shop just can't make it to me, pity) Ironically, as I prepared the dinner I changed to a TV station where they were showing Bridget Jones' Diary. Great movie. I ate smashed potatoes and beef. I laid on the sofa. I smoked. Bridget smiled.

What a great life, being single. Wait for me, Bridget. We're still too young.