I am contemplating to go out and party outside, but as always the case, I’m left in my room writing. My journey in Vietnam is about to end; I’m only counting the remaining hours. I’m supposed to have fun, but as always the case, fun doesn’t escape relativity. Until this time I still do not have a working definition for fun, so I am starting to think of my self as really boring, insipid.
I’ve been so used to being alone that having fun with another person is not what fun is as I see it. I love traveling alone, having dinner alone, doing things (except sex) alone.
I hope to change things when I’m already in Manila. I just turned 23 but I feel like a man of 60. Probably, growing up in the province has something to do with this attitude towards fun as my generation defines it. I’m not altogether against anything bacchanalian or hedonistic but I am more inclined to be quite conservative when it comes to Friday and Saturday night parties. And now, while I’m counting the remaining hours of my stay here in Vietnam, I chose to get stuck inside my room in a seedy hotel, reading Gustave Flaubert.