1:02 p. m. » Semi-Erótico

I've been nervous. I've been truly, and drenched in paranoia, nervous. First noticed upon the arrival of my two visitors from the United States, later solidified after the forewarnings received in the eclectics' bar where Americans, namely straight Americans, aren't welcome. I recognize the origin of this once familiar but now unsettling-memory evoking sweat (almost embarrassingly insuppressible) as the same as that by which I was ('was' as to better be portrayed as the victim that I was) self-inflicted during a time described in several of the earliest posts below. I'm making efforts to refrain from being, but more importantly from seeming, reproachful (as I know that these two are obligated to nothing), because it's me, now programmed, who is the obvious guilty party. Guiris. Inglés. I don't know why I care. You know I'm never really being serious -- but the fact that I'm (only half-)unknowingly never really kidding totally puts the joke back on me. Moving on, I've comfortably settled upon the explanation of this almost unnoticeable awkward vibe (earlier hastily assumed as a simple friend crush) between a certain male teacher and myself (and in an almost epiphanic manner) as being none other than our old beloved friend 'sexual tension' -- of course -- not enough traces of attraction even exist for me to be able to collect an amount sufficient for the notion of simply wanting to want to hold his hand to enter my head -- as a friend so wisely said: Christ knows we all need to have limits. Jesus. I'm living with an emotional infrastructure polarized. A paradox. It doesn't make any sense. Nothing makes any sense. My strength is shot, oppressed by the definition of inconsideration, was cornered into living months with eggshell floors by someone's inadvertently unleashing the correct combination of threats along with providing a living condition just specific enough to ensue sufficient fear. Getting kicked out onto the street? Most of it still can't be discussed. Too sacred or precious -- even for the internets. It was so perfect, so fragile, so ridiculously painful, such painful bliss. Me, whittled down to nothing more than a creature, naked, humiliated, helpless, and above all, pathetically and shamelessly melodramatic, yet more content and comfortable than ever. I'm sicker than I'll ever know, self-tortured, self-righteous, such insatiable hypochondria. Thank the Lord for what I've been given -- I couldn't imagine being any happier. More confessions. The front half of my tongue has been orange for over two weeks; I have no idea why. More confessions. I might as well even admit I've listened to Antics almost 70 73 times since its release. More confessions. It must be Wednesday's absinthe. Someone make me stop. Thank God you all only have fifteen more days for which to put up with this.

4:22 p. m. » The Grande Finale

The culminant moment of all my stay here has already dragged me through itself -- and yes, as premature (or at least in relation to the format in which these types of things are usually scripted) as it is, I can't help but think that this makes the fact that I've now got three more weeks to sit through just about perfect. It's forced me to think -- and mostly about you. Consider my stay here. Everything that you've read below actually happened to me (and I regret leaving out some of the now seemingly most significant pieces, for example the worms in our cupboards, the bloodstains, or the evil things the two women living with us say to Serena). I assume that this was already understood by pretty much all of you, so you know that, obviously, that would make this blog nonfiction internet reading material. The problem is though, to you, this might as well be fiction. They're just stories. You weren't present for the happening of any of these moments -- you skimmed across these subpar tries at documenting situations, situations that left no room for exaggeration (though perhaps a tiny bit for dramatization), not stopping to consider that, OMG, this actually happened to someone. I was at the second birthday party of the week that Serena had been invited to. I sat there in the corner, on the opposite side of the room from the (other) parents, doing my homework. This, mind you, was after everything happened to fall together well with a not-so intense episode of panic I had had in having to somehow obtain a gift for the kid, working within 10 minutes of my deadline, and during the siesta. After arranging a deal that, thinking back, had to have looked suss to the parents in the schoolyard, two Americans and I met in an alley next to the school, one of whose hair was wet, where they gave me a wrapped present and a small amount of money. At the party I received a text message from Cecile (who'd just spent three days in Madrid), saying that she'd landed and that she'd meet me at the party shortly. She (finally) walked in the door just as the kids were, at volumes indescribable, chanting "¡Piñata! ¡Piñata!", provoking the father to bring the thing out. Christ, (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!) it was getting to be too intense. Serena made a run for her mother (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!), but just as Cecile embraced her, the poor thing began a mad fit of coughing. She took a step back (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!); she projectile vomited at least two consecutive steady streams of some sort of clearish mucus-resembling goo (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!), practically drenching her mother's clothes and leaving on the floor a pool large enough for half the kids in the room to wash and rinse what hair they had in. As the father of the birthday boy frantically hurried to her side with (nothing but) a wad of KLEENEX, suggesting that she might be brought to a (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!) doctor, Cecile began fumbling through languages, saying, "she's just tired! she's just tired!" And as if this (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA! [in addition to them now climbing over any adult they could find]) weren't a point low enough, after the (now paranoid about their own children's health -- who knows what these kids had been doing together and sharing in school) parents' persistence with the doctor idea and with questions such as had she been doing this often lately, Cecile, completely (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!) desperate-looking and flustered, nodded at me and blurted out, "I don't know! She's been with him!" Death. For at least three seconds I was sure there was no other way out. Time stopped. I wasn't even there. It was then that I realized that this, actually, was my life; that I, actually, had chosen this over college; that I, actually, was there; that this, actually, was happening; that these, actually, weren't just stories; and that all the parents were looking at me; and that, God help me, I had just come to this ridiculous city to try to learn Spanish. I started missing things that I had no business missing yet. Seeing Serena's empty shoes every night. The old men in my neighborhood, probably more ancient than the statues they surround, sitting on their benches, at least one of whom I kept wanting to talk to and befriend, but weakly put off, wanting to grip the language better. The woman who hands out fliers for the vegetarian restaurant, who after my declining her offering once, learned my face and that I wasn't interested and instead just smiles and says hola everyday as I pass her. That one mother, who always rides her bike to fetch her daughter at school, who recently dyed her hair, who always smiles when I try to speak Spanish with her. The old woman on the Metro who sits in the same seat and rides in the same car and at the same time every morning, having a new book every Monday. Always seeing the language. The street signs. The streets. The city. And of course Marga -- something I was never even able to bring myself to consider pursuing. Marga. I could write a novel of treppenwitzen. Marga. Whom I only see for a fifteen minutes each Wednesday. Whom I ask to help me with the homework I don't even need help with. Who always wears the thing in her hair. Who doesn't have an e-mail address. Who's had hundreds of students like me. Whom I might, even now, never see again. Who once wrote me that note, saying that they missed me and that she couldn't hand my homework back because she found it too charming. Whose face I wouldn't have been able to help but see instead, were I to have been so lucky as to be with any girls while here. Who always feels the need to touch my hair. Who once told me I speak with a French accent. Who used me for or tricked me into paying for her drunk cab ride home. Who swears to me I was there with her for things I know I wasn't. Who drank port with us during class. Who first taught me how to give compliments in Spanish -- and who probably was on to me, playing along when I pretended not to understand, as we'd have to practice it again, and again, and again. But I woke up. I was back in the living room of young Pablo's house in Poble Nou in Barcelona in the real world. I didn't know if the parents had been staring at me for some time or if I was still just immersed in some synchronized-like quick first glance. This is why I am here. I am here for and because of this moment (¡PIÑATA! ¡PIÑATA!). This is why I am here.

8:29 p. m. » They Want Me Out

Two things. I awoke this morning to find that someone had deleted all 40 gigabytes worth of music from my iPod. At first I thought an error had occured, but after seeing that my contacts and other info had been left unharmed, the entire erasure began to look suspicious. The same sister who'd gone through my things had also imposterized me by my instant messenger alias, and tonight told me that she'd been naughty as she'd been "quite rude" to a friend of mine. To whoever that was, I apologize for the entire population of Europe. These people have gotten out of hand.

8:01 p. m. » I'm Coming Home

It's nearing the end of the line. This can't even go on any longer; I think I should, after all, get out before I lose any hope of ever chancing to rediscover an ability to sense or distinguish the difference between that which is normal and that which is, for example, my life now. I can finally cross "declining to threesome" off my lifetime to-do list after sitting through a transparent telling of a surely fabricated triangular experience by the aforesaid Swedish girl, the one who's apparently finally come to the conclusion that, as neither one or the other can be settled upon, she must proposition both my classmate and me simutaneously. She told him the same story -- and didn't forget to mention that she'd also told me. I'd found this entire situation humorous at first, seeing as neither of us had been interested, but after learning that he'd written her a poem, confessing his feelings for her, I must admit that I felt slightly betrayed for not being told first. The joke, nevertheless, was on him, as three days into the relationship, she's telling him how much she loves him, and he's equating her to a three ring circus, I quote, "you've got the elephants, the clowns, and the other shit -- it's like -- I don't even know what to look at." In other news, I now know I'm gay, thanks to this strange attraction I've had to hanging out with a faghag teacher I've got, the one with whom I've been exchanging private language lessons, and the latent that that I've had to my male professor since classes began is suspicious as well. Last night hosted my spending hours at a gay bar (after successfully pretending to be Spanish while helping out a gang of foolish Americans [who were from the south but had never heard of Lil' Flip]), that played just about nothing other than spectacular 80s little-girl pop songs about everybody wanting to drink Coca-Cola, soooo surrounded by gay Spanish men, while a gorgeous Catalan girl wandered the filthy streets of the neighborhood desperately and frustratedly trying to find me and this hidden bar -- something I didn't even bother to realize was happening. The former of said teachers, who hates cliche tourists more than anything and also promised to help me get a teaching job by lying and saying that I have a load of experience, by the way, last night spent an unwarranted amount of energy telling me that I cannot go back to the United States, that I do not belong there, that she can't understand how I came from there, that it must be so uncomfortable for me there, that Barcelona's my home -- all as if I was being congratulated and told that I had been accepted into an elite rank or club. This, for some reason, along with my being awoken by Cecile at 12.30 today (relatively the crack of dawn after last night) because she, without telling me, had made an appointment to install a shelf in my room after having given me permission to sleep all day, is making the dread of going home, so much easier to deal with. Two nights ago I discovered that one of the women who lives with me had been digging through my bags in my room, and when I inquired about it, the blame was displaced. There are things in my room that I normally wouldn't feel comfortable with acquaintances discovering, such as the pack of contraceptives I used to deflorate an older WOMAN (just kidding -- maybe), but seeing as I no longer give a third of a shit what these people think of me, I did nothing more than TIDY UP my room A BIT (meaning put everything in my suitcases, because, as I may have mentioned, Cecile never felt that I needed any more furniture than the mattress on my floor). One last thing I have for today is that I'm being forced to sit through a four year-old's birthday party tomorrow alongside the parents of all of Serena's classmates because her mother's decided to go out drinking again tonight and would prefer to sleep tomorrow. I used to know what awkward felt like, but that's definitely one of those sentiments of which the capacity to feel was robbed from me no less than 3 months ago.

P.S. I've decided that the only trait I've found to like about the British people is that when you hit them they say "Oy!" rather than "Ay!" or "Ow!"

9:04 p. m. » There Is Finally A Person I Can Honestly Say I Hate And Have Reason

It's not as though I'm putting up with the unreasonable amounts of maltreatment that I not so long ago was (i.e. despite my vombitious flu, being told to move furniture from one apartment to another so that she-who-shall-not-be-named could go out drinking with friends), but I've realized that, if nothing else since moving here, I've grown an -- or discovered my -- amazingly indomitable thick coat of endurance, protecting me from some of the most asinine of accusations and expectations that ever were realized by any creature that ever walked the Earth -- ever. Let's give you another example. Just a few nights ago I was asked to stay at home to look after Serena -- this is a duty that quite some time ago began occurring with less frequency, a gradual change I can only assume has a certain someone's capital traits (inconsiderateness, insensitiveness, and insatiateness... not to mention her obsessive accusing and ever thriving habit of unsuccessfully evading blame) to thank -- and five minutes before you-know left the apartment, seeing as I'd been (and still am) suffering the payoffs of this malignant cough (that also has a certain person's unrelenting smoking habit and refusal to ever open any window to be grateful for -- and by the way, Serena's had the same for well over a month, but the notion to take her to a doctor has yet to enter the mother's mind), I thought I'd lay down (with the light on) for those few moments I had left of my free night. Just before my time was up, I was told to go into the living room and watch the television with Serena. An hour later, just after she'd fallen asleep, I received a phone call from her mother, checking to see that her daughter had fallen asleep and that all was well -- I was there next to the little girl, studying, and so I was speaking in a whisper. Normal enough. A few hours later, an event thats deservance (sic.) to be established and named as 'the monster's return' has now been further confirmed, was realized -- she came home. Brace yourself, because this isn't even the best part, but this woman then, let's say, had stern words with me for what not only seemed like more than half hour, but most definitely was. Unfathomably drunk, she stammered and slurred, but managed to express that which she wanted to: that her entire night had been ruined, as she'd been completely preoccupied with her daughter's well-being, because this guy, me, who, she feels, she's wasting a ton of money on, was supposed to be caring for her, but instead, as usual, had made up some excuse, this time that he was sick, and had obviously been back in his bed sleeping when she later checked in. Other issues were brought up as well, but remember, this isn't the important part -- this is normal, I just sat there with nods, sometimes bothering to explain what actually had happened, but most of the time, knowing that that would only encourage her to conjure more reasons that I bug, kept quiet. Not two hours later though, as I was beginning to fall asleep, I heard Serena crying in her bed (which is shared with you-know-who), screaming, again and again, that she had to use the bathroom. Who knows how long that had been going on for, but after five or ten minutes of confusion, I realized that something definitely wasn't right -- and so I went into their room to investigate. I found Serena, beet red, face covered in tears, screaming and standing next to her mother's head -- the lights were on. Her mother, entirely tucked away under blankets, was rolled into a ball, deep in intoxicated slumber, not even remotely aware that anything had been or was going on. The next day, she remembered nothing -- but did find the entire night, including the yelling session with me, quite humorous. I asked Serena if she remembered what had happened, and she told me, "Yes, I was thinking she was dead." I suppose I could just end this post right here.

7:03 p. m. » No Home.

For a week I've found myself suffering a nasty, deep lung cough, and being that certain choices I made last weekend did nothing to relieve me of this, I found it glaringly necessary to visit the pharmacist for a remedy, which, despite my having no prescription, ended up being a not so smallish lot of capsules containing 500mg of Amoxicillin with some other something -- offered and given to me without hesitation. SPAIN. I should mention that my cough is presently worse than beforehand. There's no segue here, but I'd like to tell that I've begun meeting in private with one of my teachers, one who resembles this Spanish freak pop/dance star, to teach her English in exchange for being taught Catalan. The latter of said languages is, to me, nothing more than a headache, nor are the logistics involved in my learning it, and though I haven't a clue as to why I decided to involve myself with this, I'm hoping to find the reason in doing so. Then again, I might assume the motivation was influenced by a my pathetically clinging onto any and every morsel of culture or souvenir to which I am able, and, yes, maybe I'm not wrong -- the countdown has begun. It's desperation maybe, but I'm now prepared to admit it: I've fallen in love with Barcelona. I've found a harboring that comforts, and I'm (despite living arrangements packaged with my being treated worse than I'd even been) happy, too so, in fact, to concentrate on moving task #3 to a higher priority -- get a job or get married (#1 and #2, Castellano and Catalan respectively). Last weekend witnessed my first proper culture shock, though the shock of the culture shock was the most affective blow, to date, thanks to a three day visit (enjoy) to the city of London. Of course I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Charles (thanks for the drugs, HI MOM) and the couple other British friends I'd made here (not to mention with the woman on the tube whose tooth, which was replaced in her gums after being freely offered to Charles, fell out onto the floor of the train, in midst of insulting and threatening us -- oh and by the way my having to, against her pleas, abandon a begging, crying Serena was more or less completely traumatizing), but the overcast sky, the drop in looks ratio, the heavy food, and the obvious energy that so much of the youth spend on appearance brought me more than halfway to the USA, somewhere, five weeks before my impending return, I wasn't exactly looking to see mirrored -- this, mind you, doesn't even mention the incomprehensible awkwardness and uncomfort my habitude couldn't avoid forcing upon me while trying to speak English during common, routine transactions. (Take a breath) however, seeing as my problem is, after all, my habituality to adapt TOO easily -- no matter what my path sees happen, all will be fine enough.

Now I'd like to demonstrate the thinking of the culture into which I will soon not be able to help but reinstate myself. Charles called it a relic -- and so I had to buy it.

My syntax is absolutely fucked.

6:16 p. m. » Pictures

I could tell you about more of the Swesian trickster's certifiably crazy doings, about how my intercambio's office boss randomly gave her a bag of marijuana, about my latest lessons in class, about how I've begun learning Catalan, or about how I'm leaving for London in 8 minutes, but I thought you might enjoy this more:

Two guiris and a catalana.

Judar.

New imposter STV SLV. EuroSLV.

Classmate Christian (stories aplenty to come), intercambio Eva, and mentioned Swesian lunatic.

11:41 p. m. » So Sexual

Never have I seen a cross-eyed (and super remarkably so) 29ish year-old Dutch man as excited, i.e. actually jumping up and down, as on Friday night in a dark club/bar after an encounter with a pair of porn stars, one of whose, Erika Hallqvist (in reality a director ¿too?), business cards I swiped from him and kept. I don't expect to see a man like as described triumphantly bouncing and hysterically exclaiming, "I touched porn people! I TOUCHED PORN PEOPLE!" again anytime soon, nor one, again, like as described, planning what to do with his IN for the industry, a verbalized dream that ended with him exclaiming "...or a producer! I COULD EVEN END UP BEING A PRODUCER!!" Before discovering what these two people were, I, curiously, remember thinking the male of the two reminded me of Loggjammin's Karl "Ich bin Expert" -- probably considering his prop police uniform and creepy stare on our Chinese Americana self-proclaimed freak-magnet of the group. Of course none of this topped the half Asian Swedish girl's consuming 1.5 glasses of wine and ending a month of failed, as in reacted to by play-dumb, mind games on me (a finale most likely inspired by a jealousy ignited by my bringing my language exchange partner, who, by the way, marked this weekend as the one during which she had to be rejected after asking me to now be her professor of something else) by finally confessing, and in a fashion involving "It's probably the alcohol but..." prefixed on every comment, that it was "too bad I couldn't be in [her] life" -- a collective ridiculousness to which I continued with said behavior by replying, "What do you mean? I can write you a letter after I leave."