Points

It's not that hard to write the beginning of a blog post. Catchy statement, funny anecdote, and you're done. The middle bit is also relatively easy, as long as you write coherent sentences and don't stray from your original story too much you're fine. The end is something completely different. Wrap it up, bring all loose ends together, but most importantly: make a point, or you're screwed.

This is an unfinished, point-less blog post. If anyone has any suggestions for a point, lets have 'em!
oh, and it's in dutch. Having two languages in my head is messy.

De hipster en de slaaf

Ik was dus op vakantie. In een niet nader te noemen land met bergen. In dat land is fietsen niet zo vanzelfsprekend als in ons vertrouwde kikkerlandje. De fietsers in de paar steden die ik heb bezocht waren stuk voor stuk hipsters op kekke fixies, maar wel met handrem.  En allemaal een helm op. Als konijntjes op de vlucht voor een schot hagel zoefden ze de angstaanjagend steile hellingen af, zigzaggend de boze blikken van automobilisten ontwijkend.  Terug naar de bergen.
We waren ’s ochtends vroeg uit de tent gekropen om om een meer heen te lopen.  Op weg er naartoe kwamen we twee fietsers tegen. De voorste was in het dagelijks leven duidelijk een hipster. Hij reed op een moderne mountainbike, vierkante nerdbril en het perfecte baardje. Met zijn iPhone 4 schoot hij foto’s, ik vermoed om ze via instagram op z’n tumblr te posten zodra er weer ergens wifi was. Een meter of twintig reed zijn reisgenoot, grote fietstassen aan de wielen van zijn stalen shetlandpony.
Later die dag zagen we ze weer. Hipster met fietsbroekje en bijpassende gele trui, zonnebril nog steeds op z’n neus, reed in een lage versnelling rustig de berg op. In zijn stofwolk zwoegde zijn sherpa omhoog met, well, basically alle spullen.

Learning. About people.

So I've been to this pub in town a couple times now, and every single time there was a guy behind the bar and waiting tables. He reminds me of my cousin, but with a lot of piercings in strange places on his face. I'd seen him smoking outside a few times on my way to the library, but never realised he worked there. He is the kind of person I look up to, the kind of person I wish would be interested in even talking to me. Not because of the piercings or anything, but because of the way he carries himself: confidently, like he 'owns the place'. I wish I could be like that in more situations.
Anyway. Today I went over to the bar to ask if they still had the magic card we'd accidentally left there two weeks ago. He went on searching for it but couldn't find it. "It's not here, luv.' he called from the back, and it sounded surprisingly sweet coming from a 20something instead of the 40+ people who usually use term with me. Later, when he came to pick up our empty glasses, he smiled and handed me the card, saying that he'd found it after all. But instead of cool, or detatched, or matter-of-factly, he seemed shy, or vulnerable. And suddenly I felt the nature of the desire to befriend him change. I was now interested in him as an actual person instead of someone who would help me feel better about myself by giving me attention. That made me realise that, even though it's sort of integral to the brain to judge people immidiately on the little information we can deduce in a second, I should really try not to.

 

Sorry, I've been ill and I'm really really tired..