6:36 p. m. » Treat

Here's something different... PHOTOS.



The famous Xavier and some other teacher I haven't had yet.



Don't know these people. Jakes.



Walk into any classroom at any time at this school, and you wouldn't be surprised to see this... the only thing I'm surprised about is that there's no wine on the table.



Respecting the Americans is a must.



The Pakistani dude I've mentioned... this is hilarious.




Don't know.

Not one picture of Marga, sorry. If you want to see some nice photos of the school and Barcelona... click here.

4:31 a. m. » ¡Deberes!

El otro día hablábamos sobre los descubrimientos famosos. Como deberes Jesus nos dijo que tuvimos que escribir como tres líneas sobre algún descubrimiento. Entonces...

Cuando Faisal tenía cuatro años descubrió que tenía un pene. Preguntó a su madre por qué ella no tenía uno y ella le explicó que ella era una chica y las chicas no los tenían. Luego Faisal preguntó a su padre por qué las chicas no tenían los penes y le dijo "¡Porque no sabrían como usarlos!"

11:14 p. m. » ¡Guau!

Today I inadvertently yet purposely confessed that I had feelings for my teacher. The class's reaction was almost as magical as the one after telling them I wished to someday mistake a transvestite for a beautiful woman (which fell short of what happened after they learned I had never had feelings for another man until I met my Pakistani classmate). These three admissions took place during an activity, for which we each had to write down two highly personal questions, post that piece of paper on the wall, then walk around the room, writing answers to each other's inquiries. The older Austrian dude answered that he'd never had sex in a bathroom because he didn't like to clean up afterwards. Big Bad British Peter answered by saying no, because he wasn't thin enough (same dude whose questions were "Have you ever had to stay overnight in a hospital for a hair transplant?" and "Have you ever met the president of your country and shaken his hand?" WTF is right). I also successfully shifted the focus of the class's MYSTERY composition -- a story, built by each student, in turn, adding a sentence, and that, in one quick phrase, was about someone finding a bloody knife at the school, someone seeing blood on our teacher Jesus' hands, Jesus running for the door, the door then becoming a red herring (DID NOT TRANSLATE WELL), students beginning to philosophize about existence, Sherlock Holmes showing up, deciding that there hadn't been a murder because the blood had only been from the red herring that Jesus had been cooking for lunch (this quick conclusion was eventually my genius idea as well; almost as good as "Then he woke up and it had all been a dream...") -- anyway, like I was saying, I successfully shifted the focus of this story from a bloody knife to Holmes' wondering how the suspect could have killed someone with a knife that resembled a penis (a thought that was quickly answered with "¡but penises can be dangerous too!". Jesus. Up there trying to write it all down on pizarra. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Put yourself in his shoes. Six foreigners, in their sixth week of learning a language, supposed to be writing a mystery, and ending up trying to mold such ideas (from an array of about five different mother tongues) into your language. ¡HI LARRY US! So this was all after handing in my homework, which more specifically was a letter from me in Mexico to some girlfriend, thanking her for the naked photos and the dirty underwear (I ALSO WROTE A BIOGRAPHY ABOUT MC HAMMER TODAY, FOCUSING ON HOW HIS OPRAH APPEARANCE COMMENCED [OR SPED] HIS ABRUPT DOWNFALL). The prototypical American, Ky (last name NOT jelly), you know, the one who everyone ended up hating, thanks to his being a flighty idiot, never remembering jack, never studying, and constantly holding up the class, left three weeks ago -- but Xavier, my old teacher (who seems to be afraid of [says she's crazy] one my new ones, hottt Marga), STILL brings up and makes fun of the dude. Speaking of evil teachers though, might I also tell you about how anytime the crack pusher, BIG BAD BRITISH PETER, speaks, Jesus, the TEACHER, can't stop himself from breaking down in laughter because the dude's accent is so shamelessly English? Not only that, but the poor bastard ends every sentence with a higher intonation, as if it were a question -- like he's totally surprised himself because he actually managed to get the fucking words out. This is the same teacher, by the way, who writes "YOU ARE A FUNNY" on the bottom of any paper I hand in. Oh! I forgot to mention these pictures (that Marga absolutely ADORED) I had to draw of a classmate dude and me meeting at a gay pride march, grinding at DISCOTEC "RAWHIDE", and losing our innocence in a tent on a mountain (just to name a three of the ten).

THIS SCHOOL IS INCREDIBLE.

*Note: I've decided to submit this as a testimonial for their pamphlet and website.

11:14 p. m. » ¡Guau!

Today I inadvertently yet purposely confessed that I had feelings for my teacher. The class's reaction was almost as magical as the one after telling them I wished to someday mistake a transvestite for a beautiful woman (which fell short of what happened after they learned I had never had feelings for another man until I met my Pakistani classmate). These three admissions took place during an activity, for which we each had to write down two highly personal questions, post that piece of paper on the wall, then walk around the room, writing answers to each other's inquiries. The older Austrian dude answered that he'd never had sex in a bathroom because he didn't like to clean up afterwards. Big Bad British Peter answered by saying no, because he wasn't thin enough (same dude whose questions were "Have you ever had to stay overnight in a hospital for a hair transplant?" and "Have you ever met the president of your country and shaken his hand?" WTF is right). I also successfully shifted the focus of the class's MYSTERY composition -- a story, built by each student, in turn, adding a sentence, and that, in one quick phrase, was about someone finding a bloody knife at the school, someone seeing blood on our teacher Jesus' hands, Jesus running for the door, the door then becoming a red herring (DID NOT TRANSLATE WELL), students beginning to philosophize about existence, Sherlock Holmes showing up, deciding that there hadn't been a murder because the blood had only been from the red herring that Jesus had been cooking for lunch (this quick conclusion was eventually my genius idea as well; almost as good as "Then he woke up and it had all been a dream...") -- anyway, like I was saying, I successfully shifted the focus of this story from a bloody knife to Holmes' wondering how the suspect could have killed someone with a knife that resembled a penis (a thought that was quickly answered with "¡but penises can be dangerous too!". Jesus. Up there trying to write it all down on pizarra. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Put yourself in his shoes. Six foreigners, in their sixth week of learning a language, supposed to be writing a mystery, and ending up trying to mold such ideas (from an array of about five different mother tongues) into your language. ¡HI LARRY US! So this was all after handing in my homework, which more specifically was a letter from me in Mexico to some girlfriend, thanking her for the naked photos and the dirty underwear (I ALSO WROTE A BIOGRAPHY ABOUT MC HAMMER TODAY, FOCUSING ON HOW HIS OPRAH APPEARANCE COMMENCED [OR SPED] HIS ABRUPT DOWNFALL). The prototypical American, Ky (last name NOT jelly), you know, the one who everyone ended up hating, thanks to his being a flighty idiot, never remembering jack, never studying, and constantly holding up the class, left three weeks ago -- but Xavier, my old teacher (who seems to be afraid of [says she's crazy] one my new ones, hottt Marga), STILL brings up and makes fun of the dude. Speaking of evil teachers though, might I also tell you about how anytime the crack pusher, BIG BAD BRITISH PETER, speaks, Jesus, the TEACHER, can't stop himself from breaking down in laughter because the dude's accent is so shamelessly English? Not only that, but the poor bastard ends every sentence with a higher intonation, as if it were a question -- like he's totally surprised himself because he actually managed to get the fucking words out. This is the same teacher, by the way, who writes "YOU ARE A FUNNY" on the bottom of any paper I hand in. Oh! I forgot to mention these pictures (that Marga absolutely ADORED) I had to draw of a classmate dude and me meeting at a gay pride march, grinding at DISCOTEC "RAWHIDE", and losing our innocence in a tent on a mountain (just to name a three of the ten).

THIS SCHOOL IS INCREDIBLE.

*Note: I've decided to submit this as a testimonial for their pamphlet and website.

11:14 a. m. » ¡Guau!

Today I inadvertently yet purposely confessed that I had feelings for my teacher. The class's reaction was almost as magical as the one after telling them I wished to someday mistake a transvestite for a beautiful woman (which fell short of what happened after they learned I had never had feelings for another man until I met my Pakistani classmate). These three admissions took place during an activity, for which we each had to write down two highly personal questions, post that piece of paper on the wall, then walk around the room, writing answers to each other's inquiries. The older Austrian dude answered that he'd never had sex in a bathroom because he didn't like to clean up afterwards. Big Bad British Peter answered by saying no, because he wasn't thin enough (same dude whose questions were "Have you ever had to stay overnight in a hospital for a hair transplant?" and "Have you ever met the president of your country and shaken his hand?" WTF is right). I also successfully shifted the focus of the class's MYSTERY composition -- a story, built by each student, in turn, adding a sentence, and that, in one quick phrase, was about someone finding a bloody knife at the school, someone seeing blood on our teacher Jesus' hands, Jesus running for the door, the door then becoming a red herring (DID NOT TRANSLATE WELL), students beginning to philosophize about existence, Sherlock Holmes showing up, deciding that there hadn't been a murder because the blood had only been from the red herring that Jesus had been cooking for lunch (this quick conclusion was eventually my genius idea as well; almost as good as "Then he woke up and it had all been a dream...") -- anyway, like I was saying, I successfully shifted the focus of this story from a bloody knife to Holmes' wondering how the suspect could have killed someone with a knife that resembled a penis (a thought that was quickly answered with "¡but penises can be dangerous too!". Jesus. Up there trying to write it all down on pizarra. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Put yourself in his shoes. Six foreigners, in their sixth week of learning a language, supposed to be writing a mystery, and ending up trying to mold such ideas (from an array of about five different mother tongues) into your language. ¡HI LARRY US! So this was all after handing in my homework, which more specifically was a letter from me in Mexico to some girlfriend, thanking her for the naked photos and the dirty underwear (I ALSO WROTE A BIOGRAPHY ABOUT MC HAMMER TODAY, FOCUSING ON HOW HIS OPRAH APPEARANCE COMMENCED [OR SPED] HIS ABRUPT DOWNFALL). The prototypical American, Ky (last name NOT jelly), you know, the one who everyone ended up hating, thanks to his being a flighty idiot, never remembering jack, never studying, and constantly holding up the class, left three weeks ago -- but Xavier, my old teacher (who seems to be afraid of [says she's crazy] one my new ones, hottt Marga), STILL brings up and makes fun of the dude. Speaking of evil teachers though, might I also tell you about how anytime the crack pusher, BIG BAD BRITISH PETER, speaks, Jesus, the TEACHER, can't stop himself from breaking down in laughter because the dude's accent is so shamelessly English? Not only that, but the poor bastard ends every sentence with a higher intonation, as if it were a question -- like he's totally surprised himself because he actually managed to get the fucking words out. This is the same teacher, by the way, who writes "YOU ARE A FUNNY" on the bottom of any paper I hand in. Oh! I forgot to mention these pictures (that Marga absolutely ADORED) I had to draw of a classmate dude and me meeting at a gay pride march, grinding at DISCOTEC "RAWHIDE", and losing our innocence in a tent on a mountain (just to name a three of the ten).

THIS SCHOOL IS INCREDIBLE.

*Note: I've decided to submit this as a testimonial for their pamphlet and website.

10:57 p. m. » Hat Trick!



THESE PLACES ARE REAL!!!

P.S. Don't track those pix back to the dude's site. It's SICK.

10:54 p. m. » ¡IMPORTANT!

oxygendrug: I pushed my cuticles (sp?) back today.
oxygendrug: I also think some Norwegian dude wants to fight me.
FeeBee says: ooh that's so girly of you
FeeBee says: why
oxygendrug: Because there's this girl from Quebec named Ester, and she was in my class, and we became friends, but at the same time she begirlfriended some guy named Oddbjörn (don't laugh, I KNOW), and though I have no interest in this girl, he doesn't talk to me, and today while I was talking to her, making plans, he walked up behind her, grabbed her hand, and totally like tried to PSYCH me out.
FeeBee says: wow!
oxygendrug: It was amazing.
oxygendrug: I should totally make a blog post out of that.
FeeBee says: duh!

9:50 p. m. » For Ben

OMG LOL IT'S SOOOOO IRONIC THAT I'M BEING CONFRONTED BY IRONIC SITCH (which shall remain untold) AFTER IRONIC SITCH (which shall also remain untold), ISN'T IT?*

*WORST POST YET

11:29 p. m. » ( )

My home is (not so) slowly developing with a sort of redolence of some weak like plot belonging to a unanimously rejected sitcom pilot. As you doubtfully remember, there's been a young super-sized (in length, not width -- aka 'thin mint') French woman, (whose immaturity now jeers with a shaming brilliant apparence) sleeping in the guest bedroom. To my surprise, I awoke this morning (after one of the most ridiculous nights of my life -- which I've resolved not to discuss here, especially after having already seen it in print, composed for an email this very morning, and with 'especially after having seen it' I'm referring to the site of the words/phrases 'Victor', 'absinthe caught on fire', 'Pakistani dude', '[five] bottles of wine', 'fresh fish', 'six in the morning', 'no money left', 'discotec', and 'Green Day' all appearing on the same page -- and in addition to all that, this page failed to mention my incidentally ending up sitting on a park bench [alone at 5 am] in some unfamiliar asphalt garden, having some foreign ¿bum? sit down next to me, [incorrectly] ask what time it was, offer me a sip of his half drunk beer, then my seeing another one coming from another direction, and my [trying to] book it the fuck out. The whole thing was totally fluky.) only to find some woman from Kenya in the kitchen, and learned that her French-speaking self would also be staying with us -- for how great a length, I do not know. Later in the afternoon, two women (also from somewhere in Africa, but they're actually more like British, and I don't know one of their names, so it might be interesting to try to keep it that way [she likes talking to me because she thinks my accent's cool -- what a butthead]) showed up at the door, and I was (not as) surprised (as one might expect) to learn that they were moving in, sharing that same small room with the same small bed the 'homosexuals' shared. WTF. So now we have a 'FULL HOUSE'. I'm just grateful that my little rabbit and I love each other so.

NOTE: For my mother's sake, I'd like to make what should have been obvious clear that feelings expressed in yesterday's post were FICTIONAL, and that I AM thoroughly enjoying myself in Barcelona.

1:41 p. m. » Blah! Boring Blah!

i'm in such a perfect place and living a dream opportunity right now, but why do i still not feel satisfired?

seriously. what's wrong with me? i mean, i know people would kill to live the life i have right now, but why can't i just be happy????

that's the way things go i guess.

even though i remember spending most of my time in highschool 100% miserable (because i was such a nerd ... shutUP you guys, you know i'm waaaaay cooler than you now :P ) i sometimes think that when people say that their the best days of our lifes, they might be right after all.

depressing, isn't it? :*(

well anyway i'm just glad i have my friends now, because without them i would have gone totally crazy (even more that i am now LOL) like a way long time ago. I LOVE YOU GUYZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!

"Say you don't know me, or recognize my face / Say you don't care who goes to that kind of place / Knee deep in the hoopla, sinking in your fight / Too many runaways eating up the night / Marconi plays the mamba, listen to the radio, don't you remember / We built this city, we built this city on rock an' roll"

sometimes it's almost scary how well a song describes how i feel... *sigh*

i HAVE TO stop smoking, but a guy (i don't remember his name, but i sorta <3 him! teehee) gave me a pack of marbloro reds (yuck!) yesterday, so i guess i have to finish those. i'll quit tomorrow.

*****************************

Things I miss in America:



shari



helpful customer service

my dog tessa

my family

lindsay

piltdown crew

west wash crew

catherine

not being charged an arm and leg everytime i withdraw money

*******************************

peace out dudes. i'm gonna go pig out on some ham sandwiches then watch some catalesian soap operas.

my life is so exciting! :D

remember chicos, don't hate the hunter, hate the dude who invented guns. <3

d-d-d-d-d

10:47 p. m. » Crack Pusher

Last night I tactfully cornered a Northern Irish BLOKE into willingly demonstrating (for a people made up of this decent variety of nationalities) his rude, ignorant, stereotyping behavioUr. USA: 3 points! Shit was joyed (sup APG?) -- and btw, this is is is is is the most special post to date; first double-in-a-day posting. Today I was, in turn, treated to being cornered, but into (brb) being visually molested by the glaring upper ¿half? of a(n unprintable) hairy crevice, belonging to the fattest, most queerish (in its intended form), and unforgivablely British BLOKE at our school, after he, wearing loose, low TROUSERS, decided to mount the table and sit on it, directly in front of where I sat, more or less savagely raping my field of vision for the following twenty ungodly eternal minutes -- and the dude was cross-eyed! England: 10 points! Luckily there were four others afflicted by the same damnation (¡¿DAMN NATION?! LOL). I think I'm going to try to read Harry Potter in Spanish.

2:19 a. m. » Deep Thought

Parents' discovery of their children's (or children's friends') blogs is so the new discovery of foraged forged excuse notes in high school. Katzeloca totally knows what I'm talking about.

2:01 p. m. » Pinch on the Butt

Cecile has had a friend staying with us for about a week now. I'd been operating under the premise, the assumption, that this woman must have been between 27 and 33 years old -- and in my defense, by the way, she's curiously tall for a French woman, reaching almost where I do. While walking with her to retrieve Serena from school, I learned today (and with an unspeakable degree of shock and/or panic -- see below) that she's a measly TWENTY-TWO years old, younger than even me; information which, in addition to drastically altering my thoughts' context of everything that's been seen by and done in front of her thus far, has completely blown my mind. Christ, I haven't felt like this since the first time I saw The Sixth Sense. OMGOMGOMG I HAVE to see this again. I tried acting natural, consistent for the remainder of the time spent with her, but she must have sensed the racket that had suddenly erupted inside my head, because she brought it up a second time -- or maybe she just noticed me sweating (I then realized, as she playfully punched my shoulder, that she may or may not have been flirting with me at that exact moment, and the situation, or the situation I, myself, was placing myself in, no, that I, more accurately, was unwillingly forcing inside my or subjecting my conscience/¿imagination? to, I don't know, CHRIST, suddenly lost all [well you know, what little there was left] grip on any sort of mental equilibrium or restraint that it had once, suddenly long, long ago, had or known -- WHAT HAD SHE BEEN DOING AND THINKING ALL THESE DAYS? I CAN'T REMEMBER. PLEASE GOD, PLEASE TELL ME SHE'S NOT FLIRTING WITH ME, AND MORE IMPORTANTLY THAT SHE HASN'T BEEN FLIRTING WITH ME. PLEASE God, I KNOW I'm stupid, but I don't want to be BLIND. PLEASE God, tell me I'm not blind. Don't let me find out that she'd actually been sent for for me -- I know Cecile finds my rarely wanting to go out with other students strange. But no. That's not possible. Not even for Cecile.). I told her I supposed I just hadn't thought about it (nice!), and yes this was the truth, but Jesus (also the name of one of my new teachers! Um -- gay!), what should I expect the remainder of our days together to bring? How awkward and self conscious will I act! Her departure is the new Easter. What is going on here -- and what in God's name, moreover but maybe first of all, is a 36 year old woman doing with a 22 year old friend, visiting from across the WORLD (Ok continent, YES A SMALL CONTINENT -- okay, not even, from FRANCE, but still)? They stay out and drink until four in the morning! This is beyond me, and has most definitely turned up the suss factor of my setting a notch. Worstly of all, I don't even know how to spell or say her fucking name.

1:38 p. m. » ¡¡¡Schnauzer of the Day!!!

11:21 p. m. » Música y Supositorio

I had a decently long Spanish discussion with one of my teachers yesterday, not the now INFAMOUSLY hottt one (under whom I have yet to begin studying), but Xavier (Tshah'bee'AIRRR -- LOL by the way, Chocolate in Catalán is Xocolata. Cute!), the Catalesian almost dorkish heartthrob (I say this, not the ish part, but the other, because the school's princess, Vanessa?, you know, the half German, half Italian freakishly guapa guapa, has or had intent to pursue). He'd told me about a band I might check out after discovering that our music tastes seemed similar (¡imagine!), and after telling him I liked it, he went on to use la pizarra to introduce me to all sorts of Spanish acts, one of whom, NOSOTRASH, has easily chosen for themselves the best band name ever.

Moving on, what's with all my old favo¡U!rite albums? When I listen to them now, they sound so incredibly and/or disappointingly shallow or transparent -- and I guess I speak of this lack soley in a physical (though this is obviously not meant to be literal, consider more the idea of like a void of sustenance? wait shit no, that approaches all sorts of figuritive and or or (DUDE, sic!) poetic fathoms and what not, as in basically exactly the opposite of what I meant to say) like way. Duh. I just listened to them too much -- not to mention the 90s are so not a la mode. Listen. I learned to say anal suppository in a foreign language today, and THAT, at the end of it all, is what truly matters. What's unbelievable is that money was actually given to this school to teach me that -- I can also now say "me encuentro como una mierda", which, for those of you who aren't Mexican, directly translated means "I find myself [am/feel] like a shit."

***
This post, by the way, marks my freshly acheived, no, EARNED eligibility for holding the world record for the longest string of AMAZING blog posts EVER.

1:54 a. m. » My New Hottt Teacher

One of the teachers told me that when I speak Spanish, my vowels bear a sort of French like accent. Muchos WTFs. She also thought I was German. She also touched my arm.

12:11 a. m. » Here's The Problem

Okay, here's the problem (and of course I'm drastically overgeneralizing here) with Europeans' opinion of Americans -- not their opinion actually, I'm not talking about a flaw, more the cause of it. I've, again basically, encountered two types of Americans since here. Those who are the ignorant, smiling type (their ideal American), and those Americans who consider themselves special, and BETTER than America (thus feeding the fire as well, but in an opposite like manner). It's almost shocking how comfortable these people (the Euros and the special Amis) are with allowing stereotypes to just sort of roll of their tongue like in a non joking manner. It's basically a free-for-all for those inclined to disrespect the people, and creates a slippery slope, or rather a bandwagon maybe, I don't know, and so the idea of Americans steadily descends. I, anonymously, sat right there next to an English woman, talking to an Irishman, "Oh you're from Northern Ireland? I can't imagine what the Americans say when you tell them that! I mean, where's Ireland? They don't even know where Europe is." WTF. The British are ugly. The British have bad teeth. The British eat shit for food. The British have shit for weather. The British are snobs. The British are prudish. The British are sluts. The British are racist. The British make terrible movies. The British are obsessed with gossip. The British can go fuck themselves. Where the fuck is Britain anyway? ¡ABURRIDO DE LOS BECKHAMS! What cause she had for saying this? I do not know. Time and time again I'm dealing with this. "Quelle suprise! You know some French, German and Spanish? And you're American? I didn't even think they taught languages there." Then they make that fucking face -- you know the one. "And listen to you! I can even understand your English!" I hate to present the word irony on this blog again, but it seems so incredibly necessary. Misuse? I don't even know anymore. Maybe it's just plain gay.

3:20 p. m. » Quickly

Jesus. Some gypsy woman just tried selling me a giant (fake) gold ring on the street. She was certifiabley 100% suss -- but she did look quite nice, so I said No grathias. Also, Serena is obsessed with Medúlla. She does these like interpretive dances along with it. Muy extraño. She keeps asking if we can please listen to MCDONALD.