Sorry, not sorry

I usually begin my days with "I'm sorry I ate all of your Dulce de leche, again," as I'm grabbing a spoonful of a new container right in front of everybody, and then I proceed to commend the Southern Hemisphere, South America, Argentina, Córdoba, Córdoba, Barrio Urca, in which one takes the N5 orange bus, for it's spoils and remedies to entice or mend any broken soul that has had a sinus infection for the past month and has run out of socks that are hole-free from the second-to-big toe. 

And then I usually end my days with thoughts such as "deja vu, I do the same thing every day," or "what more is there to live for other than conversations in Spanish, getting lost and walking for miles, dying of hunger until you buy a McDonsld's triple decker hamburger, hanging out with friends who only wish that you were their friends back home, occasionally asking everybody if their parents worked for the government during the Dirty War and then getting mad at everyone else who asks you what the Dirty War was," my point is, I miss dorm life, where you are half a second away from everyone, and they will swaddle you. 

I'm an introvert, so I like to take time away from people and recharge my battery, but whenever it's basically 95% of me being alone, I go mad. 

And since there's no chocolate to eat away my sorrows, I have dulce de leche, which is even better.

So, sorry I ate all of your Dulce de leche, again.