Enya

Chères soeurs,
I need not be reminded that I am so dreadfully incapable of apprising you regularly on my daily comings and goings. But you see I have become so frightfully listless during my stay in Germany; I fear I can't summon the energy to do much of anything, least of all relate the events of my humdrum existence.
Today I woke up particularly out of sorts, owing much to what I perceived to be a social slight the night before, or at least miscommunication that verged dangerously on a social slight and left me to the mercy of the wolves. I returned to my shabby rooms and, naturally, availed myself of the two bottles of Beaujolais that I had purchased for use in a more social atmosphere. It would thusly be too cruel to judge me too harshly for skipping class today; to begin with, my contributions are hardly of a terribly substantive nature, so it was really to the benefit of all that I absented myself.
I also rejected the idea of eating at the cafeteria, such a dispiriting affair, and thought a little Thai at a nearby restaurant would prove revivifying. If it wasn't such an apt commentary on my most desperate of situations, it would be humorous to relate how, quite like everything else in the country, German Thai is so overwhelmingly insipid. And while not being a stranger to the glaring inadequacies of service at such establishments in the US, I was still quite appalled to find that the staff seemed to stop at nothing to offend my sensibilities.
I really need not narrate the content of my daily excursion to the library; its rather too prosaic, save for the presence of a vicious man who controls the comings and goings of the reading room to which I have found myself so unpleasantly foisted.
More recently, I went in search of late afternoon tea and cheer to fortify me for what is sure to be another gloomy night. Unsurprisingly, you would say, I only discovered a cafe that rather ought to boast its atmosphere of unmitigated oppressiveness.
I decided a savory crêpe would be in order, as a fair approximation of the dinner I shall not treat myself to. Folly on my part assuredly, a crêpe surely made for some lesser life form or a viscious joke played at my expense, seemingly like so many before it. I now only have the thought of my near immanent return to sustain me, while everyday I fear the prospect of another.
This might very well be my last little missive from Europe; and as such, I hope it serves as a cautionary tale to the dangers of idle prattle. How I would like to ring the necks of all who have said that Germany was a country of interest, for I am not certain if ever a more bland, uninspiring and featureless place ever existed. I am writing this of course as someone loudly plays Enya in the background, most certainly to make mockery of my overwrought emotions.
Yours foudly,
Saint-Denis