Hairdressers.

I hate it when people talk non-stop at hairdresser's. I pay you to cut my hair, not to fake interest in my life.

Memory 12.

I was in that area of East London where I spent a few years of my life, young and unexperienced, in a relationship that I don't even remember now. I don't remember how I got so profoundly involved and how I got out of it, but every time I find myself in East London, in that particular God-forsaken area, I feel immensely happy with the fact that I escaped that relationship that could had been still dragging. I was walking down the street, passed the big supermarket where I used to shop on my way back to the one bedroom flat we used to share, passed the clinic, where I begged for some antibiotics when I had chickenpox one hot summer and had to spend two weeks away from work, alone in the flat, and passed the hairdresser, Evolution, where I went only once, to have my hair done before the wedding. He then said that my hairdo looked like a "pineapple". I don't think I cared much about his opinion even then.
God, I am so glad this all now is nothing but a blurry past. Different world. Different universe. I don't even feel sad when I am in East London anymore. It's like it never happened.

A note about the type.

I have just finished "Generation A" by Douglas Coupland and I am disappointed. It's sad to admit to myself that the book for me did nothing. It's like "Player One" - full of Coupland's cliches yet leaves you unfulfilled and longing for something more.

And then, like at the end of any decent book, there is a note about the type. Who gives a damn? Who cares?