Her Name Is Probably Hilda

It has become glaringly apparent that kaya sol, the place where I'm staying in Costa Rica, is not the same without friends. I'm bored out out of my mind. I basically alternate between surfing, making trips to the mini market to buy things I patently don't need, and starting lasciviously at the gift-from-god German girl that just checked in. We had one brief encounter in the water. She took off on a left and I was sort of in the way and when she paddled back out I apologized. I'd say we're just about to date. Things are still the same with Rick. His side of the room still smells like a dumpster and he still spends the majority of his waking hours in bed with his laptop on his lap. But at least he doesn't snore. I will probably spend the rest of the day reading a semi crappy book by Dennis Leary, checking to see if the wind has died down, and trying to engineer scenarios that end with me in a mid to long-term relationship with said German goddess, living in a town in Bavaria, dining delicious cold foamy brews, threshing wheat, and populating the countryside with our countless progeny. The only thing I'm not over the moon about her is that she kind of sounds like a boy when she talks. But hey, I'm sure it's something I could deal with. Nobody's perfect. Except joss.