maybe I should go downstairs and show them how much fun it can be when I am around. You know. Just to leave a mark. A print in the carpet of social webs being woven late at night. Laughter, remarks, witty ones, drinks, alcoholic and non and spaghetti.

one more cup of coffee before I go

maybe I shouldn't. This isn't so important. After all and anymore. Life goes on and I gotta sleep and I gotta be by myself and I gotta do this and I gotta do that. They like me anyhow.

so I show two of them the house.
'...and here that's the picture of my ex-boyfriend but i don't like to say that, I still love him man, we still love each other, so I'd rather say he is my lover'
'he is a gypsy right?'
'yeah'
'I mean, a real one, right?'
'half. - half gypsy half romanian'
'that's the same'
'no it's not, Romanians hate gypsies'
'everybody hates them. Gosh, finnish gypsies....'
'me included'

maybe that's a lie I think as I retreat and not go back. maybe I've always loved the romantic notion of the whole idea of being a gypsy. maybe I have sympathized too much. maybe I've wondered too much, as a little girl. But there were so many songs. What are you gonna do. You sing and you sink.

It's late now and maybe I'll go back and see how the spaghetti are doing.