My Olympic Games essay

It's Sunday morning.
10AM.
I'm not awake because I just woke up, but because I didn't sleep.
Yet.
Or.
At all.
AS USUAL.

After a lovely evening ranting and bitching around with a couple of friends, drinking an immoderate quantity of pudding milk tea, I spent the whole night on the parquet of Dunhua Eslite bookstore lurking Chinese translations of all the Shakespearean plays I could think of.
Highest moment when a random guy, too into a Nabokov's poetry book, LITERALLY sat ON my head.
I can't recall about nobody SAT on my head before.
However, I didn't ask him to marry me, since it was Nabokov and not Yevtushenko.

(Impressively. In Italian we write Evtušenko. I just googled the English transliteration and it's Yevtushenko. God, why?).

Back home, I bought a pumpkin sandwich and a soy milk for breakfast, listening Keith Jarrett's 1976 Tokyo Concert Encore.

("Music is what feelings sound like")

For living, I read papers.
Tons. Of. Papers.
Concerning, mostly, bionic-men and heavy metals.
(And that seems Wolverine)
(But it is not).

I write on my agenda the day in which movies are out and comics are out and action figures are out.
At 36, I wear set of pins with witty jokes about famous scientists on my skull-themed sweaters.

Geek.
It's a compliment.