...and some love

Living in the Hotel California was like living in the kind of isolated student campus that I never lived in. Everthing is done together: you work, eat, party, sleep, do sport or watch tv next to the same people all the time, forgetting that an outside world exist, all the while collectively dreaming about the magical times in the far future when The Ordeal will be over. The workplace is a hook-up spot at the same time (as I've heard): couples sprout up like mushrooms after rain - and most often split up as fast. Any girl (or any pretty boy, for that matter) emerging on the horizon is checked up and charged at by a pack of hungry wolves before she (or he) gets to mouthing the jour part of Bonjour.

It's all right for the girls, I guess, because we're kind of used to too much attention, at least as long as it stays in the boundaries of a conventional approach. As usual, I had laughed very hard when my efforts of mixing my two-word Spanish with my three-word Russian were successful in the sense that I eventually understood what the Bulgarian trucker wanted to buy from me. However, when the boy-runners started getting late-night texts from their chieftain with an offer to earn some extra cash by providing some extra services, things went bad. The chieftain was kicked down from his place on the throne and banished from the Land of the Eternal Christmas until the end of times. It must be a tough life if the failure in getting free love will be topped off by an epic failure in trying to buy it.

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes Benz
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.