And then what happened?
I love to generalise when I'm explaining myself. It seems to make everything I say sound almost inevitable. Case in point:
Everyone has blanks in their lives. I could display what I have for you because I do have shrapnel: dismembered memories with drips of emotion and insight oozing out and drying up, but why bother? They've served their purpose, and I don't need to keep them. They can clutter a place so easily. I'll just mention them in passing if I find they are close to hand and worth talking about.
Quasi-mojo came to school with me when I was five but he stopped coming quite early on because he found it difficult to keep my attention and he found the whole affair so utterly distasteful. He said it took all the pleasure out of scratching himself, and that scratching himself was one of very few pleasures that he had.
He scratched himself a lot actually. In fact scratching himself was one of only two things that I've ever seen him do with his right hand: with it he held a cigarette and scrathed his considerable and prominent genitalia. It's always surprised me that the phrase 'himself' or herself refers so readily in our language to the activities involving genitalia but it surprised me even more that Quasi-mojo followed the convention. His left hand mostly gesticulated or interacted with the orifaces of his face and posterior.
So without saying too much about what we got up to before he left (I'll come back to it now and again later) I didn't see Quasi-mojo again until I finished my schooling. I remained in education until the age of twenty two and then I took a trip. I kept an account of this trip for friends and family; twelve chapters in all. Of course I'm about to say, "...and then we met again," but if you have an interest in that account before we continue our story, the twelve blogs from September to November 2003 consist of the very same. I called it a travelogue (as in a 'catalogue of travel' as opposed to a 'travel log' per se - not that there's an awful lot of difference)
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