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!"

 2:16 p. m. »  d

She-rah, you were in my dream. You lived in Barcelona and we were going to hang out, but Cecile got super jealous and made a move on me. Matthew Perry also showed up three times, so that should show you just how incredibly significant anyone who appears in my dreams is in my life. About Serena, all I can do is feel sorry for her. I don't think she's in danger, if I did, I'd do something, but I just think she's going to have a difficult life, growing up with a crazy mother. I love her and I'll miss her a ton.

 12:45 a. m. »  dr. j

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