Two Love Letters: Part Two

By George Kolena Mon Cheri,

As I am sitting on the porch of my 0.5-star hotel in the suburbs of Kuala Lumpur, dodging bird shit landing occasionally through a crack in the roof, here are my thoughts on us. How symbolic. Bird poop, oh-la-la… Get it?

The way I see it, life is a lesson and you learn it when you're through. And that’s probably the only bit of wisdom I take from whatever it was going on between you and me.

Mon papa likes to say, when it does not feel OK, chop it off… LOL, and you must know because he is a butcher in life and in wisdom.

Anyway, even though I am not identifying myself entirely with mon papa’s philosophy, you were my peak I loved to climb in the few sunsets we had together or the lows when you hit me with the oxygen tank as I taught you scuba diving.

Ha-ha…, my head still hurts and no shit, I am sending you the bill for my visit to the local clinic where the village wizard tried to stitch up my forehead with a suspiciously looking needle.

Oh great, and now I think I have an infection.

In fact, I am honestly grateful for the chemicals you gave my brain and the handful of laughs we had… Now I really think the locals have been selling me green tea to smoke.

Where were we…

Oh, right, You, I and Your thighs were a phenomenal team, but the quick Kindergarten ABC’s of a summer thing we had over the last few weeks are finished and I don’t really see myself being a part of never-ending blah-blahs about the complexity of life…

It was very sweet, but I thank the Universe in its eternal wisdom that our paths have gone in a totally different direction.

Your world is, whatever and wherever that is ha-ha is not in my Galaxy and as much as I want to ramble on, please, hold your drink, sip through a straw whatever the next discovery of yours will offer you to put in your collection of stamps on your journey throughout this world.

This is one of the days when the whole world is confusing me and the concept of time and patience is totally fucking with my head causing partial and down down below micro anxiety that is making me feel like a 350 yrs old Galapagos turtle with more than a sophisticated concept of time, on the other hand, that is just staring at the waves from the beach and watching wooden ships with Captain Cook sink on the nearby reef followed by metal ones with Nazis smuggling Hitler to the island of Fiji…

On days like these, my mind is a fucking borefest of a slo-mo movie which is causing me to think… and I quote myself; “common life, what the fuuuuuuuuuuck, would u be so kind and would you skip some of the shit you had installed for me…”

I am tired with this occasional drag of a nonsense that you bring, make me a plant please… and give me a karmic lesson on how to enjoy simple things in life more often, because my mind is not that simple… -the End-

Not quite…


I fucking feel shit happening… but the slo-mo process of it is crushing every single bit of my brain fiber. it's in my DNA.

I guess I mutated into a hobby optimist whose real nature is a constantly unhappy looking cynic???

Shit, and now I am awarding myself a Nobel price for a quite narcissistic self-indulging reflection of my true self


I am moving forward, because I can’t wait for things to happen and even if it is taking sometimes way too long, Cheri, you are a ball and chain for my head.

Needless to say, like most of the lines in this lengthy rant, I have to admit, I have met someone here in KL. C'est maginifique, she spilled hot soup on my foot from one of the street vendors nearby and even though my toes still smell like curry and she gives an amazingly happy ending every time she bends.

This is the stuff that I wish it would never end, for now at least.

Yeah, that was pretty much her way to say sorry since she can’t speak any other language than kissing a la francaise and some of that jungle talk wherever the hell she is from…

I even think she is approaching her 20’s, but I am not sure. She is my KL Bastille worth to conquer for a while and after she falls, I am sure some heads will be rolling along with some of the proverbial bloodshed.

It is what it is, la vie est une constant revolution… in my head or with my untrimmed hippie Eiffel tower haha. Oh, I have your sandals btw, they kind of remind me of you, still being in the back of my happy les miserables head somewhere and therefore I am gonna send them back to you along with my 1000 words of purging so you can print them out, light them on fire and dance around them in your newly returned possession.

I believe it must have been a nocturnal rodent from hell, leaving a few les poops and tolling the last time your memory of a bell.

Needless to say, this is where I am and you dancing around these lines on fire is where you should be. In your own bliss of what the world has to offer.

The world is my cheapskate yoga mat with holes and my goal is to spend as much time as I like with and in the local cuisine, if you know what I mean wink-wink and learn to curb and challenge my exuberantly youthful impatience.

So here is my toes-ted toes to you. Even though my feet smell of curry, my memories of you, for sure in time, will I bury? My Eiffel tower gets hand and other service polish regularly, it is shining now more than ever AND spectacularly.

And since my lap is hot and itchy from writing you this nonsense, silly jam, I tell myself, oh damn… I have to go and do my shit because I am an independent man and of course…

Because I can, at least a little bit.

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