Reading back through my letters for him, I am now convinced that my life is made up of mundane narratives of observations from my truly boring day. Like today I told him that i ate in cocina juan--i swear if not for the cheesy corn soup, I would not go back to the place as often as I do-- and then Sancho churreria manila--a small café that offers blah desserts-- and then finally to bookay-ukay to buy two books.
See, my life is incredibly dull that i am surprised that i have something to say to him at the end of the day. Though i understand that the stories i tell him are considerably exotic because he does not experience it with me.
To top all this, we send letters and postcards to each other--as if we don't actually talk all day. Sometimes I wonder if I deluded myself into thinking that I am an interesting person but in fact I am actually as dull as brick and clichéd too.