Prozac Wanted

Music in my head: Tool - Schism
Today's weather: Cold on the outside, warm on the inside.

Five more days.
And its over.
Fifty days of Europe.
Fifty days of bearing the crushing weight of the collective expectations of disillusioned, perhaps deranged, yet naive fools who believe that Europe is Eurotrip.
Fifty days of gawking at anything that moved, and that includes swanky convertibles.
Fifty days of eating bland Euro trash, and putting mayonnaise on anything that resembled anything that was even remotely edible- literally, not, as the disillusioned and the deranged might impishly conceive, figuratively.
Fifty days of internet connections faster than the speed of thought.
Fifty days of breathing clean, cold air, that smells like fresh croissants in the morning, stinks like seafood in the afternoon, and has no particular odour in the evening.
Fifty days of smiling facades beaming at other smiling facades in a society that is itself a facade draped over a freakishly fragile, seemingly sophisticated porcelain dummy that is set precariously at the very edge of a mantelpiece in a little wooden villa bang on top of a fault in the Earth's crust.
Fifty days of larger than life gangster graffiti and smaller than peanut average intellect.
Fifty days of first feeling minuscule about who I was and where I was from, and slowly growing to eclipse the 'civilised' and 'cultured'.
Fifty days now, and who knows how many more, of feeling minuscule about the unaccomplished, the very same naive expectations that I naively derided.
Fifty days of forty days and ten nights.
And its over.
Five more days.
I'd love to finally leave, but I'd love to stay.
But I'd rather leave.