Today was uneventful. For me, that's not a complaint, but it is decidedly irregular. Normally, I can point to at least one quirky interaction I've had or to some otherwise completely banal occurence and see the humour in it. Today though, there were no moments like that. Nothing at all weird or unusual or whimsical or fan-tas-tic happened. Nothing. It was just a day. The sun came up (which, granted, qualifies as a borderline unusual event in Belgium), I worked, I had French class, I came home, cooked and ate dinner, went to the bottle depot with my roommate and we for a long walk and talked about the Middle East. We made a trip to the storage unit to find my pillow and she found a skirt in my bag of clothes I'm giving away and convinced me to keep it. I called my family in Nova Scotia and now I'm blogging. Come to think of it, it was a pretty damn nice day. But it is the kind of day that, by tomorrow will have blended itself into the soup of non-fantastic days and I'll probably never think about it as a discrete block of time ever again. Nor will I ever associate a single event or memory to this day.

It's as though this past 24 hours was completely meaningless. That it never actually existed.

Brrrr... sorry to get all Camus about it. I'm just saying.