1:22 a. m. » Dancing and Eating

This really should have been part of yesterday's post; especially seeing now how uncharacteristically short it was, but I feel a bit obligated to discuss Serena and my dancing just a little (of course, one could then say this relates to Cecile's finally meeting one of our obscenely rich [as I'm led to believe], beach-side elite-like discotheque owning, next-door neighbors, though we'd known their two housekeepers for some time, who, and though I did not catch her name, offered to bring us dancing any time [oh, and by the way, if we ever need drugs of any kind, we shouldn't be afraid to ask]). Anyway, because I failed to describe it yesterday, I will do so now. I assume everyone knows and is in agreement that the site of a small child dancing is one that is of the most queer and undeniably hilarious ever to be seen. She does this then asks me to 'dance' with her (an action more accurately or appropriately described as my lifting her into the air, spinning in circles until my skin is blue and she's rolling across the floor), which I, as the man of the house, deny with an impressive lot of intimidation and force (which is then, you know, conquered by her big-fat-kissing my ugly face and looking up at me with those enormous brown eyes -- blinking).

Upon first seeing Serena, and even there before, there was this fear or expectation, maybe even anticipation, of my heart breaking when the time were to come for my departure. This quickly dissipated as I was dragged through a (in retrospect) brief period of believing to have agreed to five months of having to play the excessively strict and unlikeable disciplinary figure. Now, as I recognize what that time actually meant, the initial (not fear, but rather) dread begins to swell, and at an uncontrollable rate! Her sandals lying next to my shoes! This is all so premature, I tell you -- just a taste. I don't know. This could be terrible.

Today she did the most peculiar (and ironic) thing, considering the situation present with my ex-housemate -- you know, the bulimic (though, for those in the know, the true irony lies in my misuse of the word 'irony,' which was intentional and thus not ironic, or maybe, in some way, was, and has now become a useless knot of some sort). She told me to watch, then reached her finger into her mouth, tapped on the back of her throat, commenced with a string of completely horrid gagging sounds, laughing, drooling. That's my girl! This is obviously odd, maybe normal, like I know anything about kids (foreign ones, no doubt!), but, and I'd made a point (see below) to not bring this up previously, I've noticed that her mother eats a(n apparently!) noticeably minimal amount. She says it's always too hot -- and I'm actually inclined to accept this as the truth (DUDE, I forgot to mention that last week I'm about 10% sure I saw Paris Hilton on the street!) -- still weird! I'd been hesitating to mention this tidbit before now, you see, simply because, if I weren't me and reading this, I would raise my eyebrows and accuse this meager creature of having a strange predilection towards (OK, ADDICTION TO) assessing, assuming, accusing eating disorders (confession! I'm habitually, overly, and possibly insanely mindful of what your, and the rest of the other's, thoughts are concerning me! me! me!). Since I said that out loud, I'm automatically pardoned from it being true.

 1:02 a. m. »  dr. j

NEWWWWW LAYOOOUTTTTTTT

 12:10 p. m. »  d

Look. Too much has happened in the last week, none of it worth writing about really. I'll get something together soon though. Verspruchen.