I just finished reading this mostly awesome but deeply problematic book about a girl who spends three years traveling throughout the Sahara desert. She talked about the sky, and I was like, "Yeah, the stars!" And she described the rapture of hearing someone speak English, and I mentally turned somersaults of joy.
It was only after that that I realized, I freaking lived in Africa. I mean...that's very weird. I took moto taxis to my friend's houses. I wore skirts every single day. I lived with sand and Mosquitos and netting and ants and sometimes spiders. I didn't have a microwave. I sweat through all my clothes on a regular basis, but the heat dried them up so it didn't matter.
I lived in an African country for five months. I left there sixteen months ago. And already it seems like a story. I don't like when my memories feel like fiction. Maybe I should go reread my blog from then.
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