12:32 a. m. » ...

It's been a year. To this day I miss Serena more than I ever thought I would. I dream about the babe on a nightly basis. I remember these dreams--something I'd never been able to do before. It truly is the primary source of depression. I've been away from her now longer than I'd even been with her.

1:38 a. m. » ...

I've decided to name my daughter "Chlamydia" so that I don't have to worry about anyone wanting to have sex with her.

9:48 p. m. » Special Guest

twox2nasty4U: It was my friend Daniels birthday today, so they decided to have a birthday dinner and drink at my bar/resaurant although when they got there food was no longer being served, I informed my inferior indian cohorts of there arival 2 hours prior. They simply nodded and carried about there bussiness. So needless to say the food could not be provided. 3 hours prior i started drinking with my new waitor/friend Elmo, his compadres came in and i decided to take a few hours off, while he pretended to be the bar tender i took the opportunity to get shit faced. when the birthday party arived it was already to late. After i closed the bar me and the birthday collective decided to hit up another favorite watering hole. The group was extremely generous... Thus the drinking continued. A man swore he would kill me unless he recieved a doss of metal luckly i had my Ipod..... its not the first time Slayer has saved my life. In many ways slayer has saved my life i guided me through troubled time and im not talking about
twox2nasty4U: the lyrics folks. I guess i cant fully describe the power of slayer in one blog. I will go off on a more conclusive slayer tangent where the full power will be exposed in a later date. after the second bar we hit up another, the group remained generous. After the 2nd bar besides my own (totaly doesnt count) we hit up an after bar at my friend jimmys house. I banded together with two other friends who are all mutual acquantences with each other and set off to jimmy the militant hippys house. we followed a gigantic chevey truck through the night droping off various other militant hippys (dripping vomit off there hemp necklaces) at various points about the south west area. the fellowship of mutual acquantences soon fell apart after a barage of bad music. when asked if (this shit really jams or what) all hell broke lose. We made swift exit. lives where spared. lives were ruined. Are souls made it intact to the original parking lot where are cars were stowed. We said our good bys and i set out for t
twox2nasty4U: he nearest gas station that wasnt quick trip. I found a conoco. Had the best damn gas station food ever........... mmmmmm........ This is where it all started. where i found my self at home i stumbled in drunk as a skunk like Edd MCman. made it half way up to my room and the noticed i felt i little bit lighter...... Where was my Ipod........ Where was my cell phone......I know i should have been thinking about a dozen things did i offend my friend jimmy.... DID i offend my other friends for bringing them in proximity with Jimmy. How am i going to get to Milwaukee tomorow. Why isnt Sarah Byron responding to me. none of it mattered where were my preciouses. Both are essencial but i need my sleep and turning around 3/4 of the way to my bed only spells disaster. But what if i left my phone in the bar, I cant afford to lose all my numbers again... and what if my Ipod is there too you know the bartenders will steal it.... Fuck i would. i couldnt sleep with out a clear consince so 3/4 to my bed i turned aro
twox2nasty4U: und piss drunk and ran into my car..... only to find out both siting in my passenger seat. It had all be a false alarm. but that just goes to show.... I care more about my machines then all Y'all. Go fuck yourselves.
twox2nasty4U: im not going to post it you should post it on your blog

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Character Profile

About me:
I guess im riding on an epiphany right now, ive never been very good at writing about myself, but it seems more clear to me now then ever before. My computer keeps shuting down as im writing this so maybe its god telling me that i shouldnt be writing this. Honestly i really dont know that much about myself, but from what ive gathered in my 21 one years of existance is that im pretty senistive or at least thats what ive been led to beleave or what my friends have tried to tell me. In this day and age i guess thats pretty convienant, or its seems to me at least that the sensitive type is generally accepted here on myspace or the internet or whatever. Maybe one day i will expliot that. I have been very sheltered my entire life and have often found myself in denial about it, for instance when I graduated from highschool ( which i didnt) i was presented with a new car from my father, much to many of my friends dismay. I often found myself defening myself for being so privalegedged, saying things like " you think its that easy, well ive went through more then you might think" this is not the truth unfortunately. my expiriences have been no different from any other teenager coming of age. I was just lucky enough to have a familly that provided for me so generously in leu of my failure. Even after the unfair advantage ive been given i have still found ways to fail again and again in areas where me peers succeed. Many people may see me as a spoiled brat, a boy who has never worked a real day in his life. Im sure to a certain extent this is true. I also like kittens ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ you know i was never really sure why I had a my space account. I kept telling myself it was to keep in conntact with old friends and discover friends that i had lost contact with. Then one day at work it dawned on me its not about friends at all, my sould purpose is to shatter the spirits and riddicule delusional teenage girls that i come across in my journey across the digital waste land which is myspace

Whom I'd like to meet:
if your are 13 to 19 years old and, enjoy "emo" "goth" or "punk" music, you hate yourself, are depressed, are best friends with some one you met online, like boys in womens pants, can count the your suicide attempts on more then one hand, purposely leave a bandana hanging out of your back pocket, are in question about your sexuality, cut yourself, use acronims like lol or jk or even rolf, take medication on a daily basis, frequently shop at hot topic or still think the jnco's are the shit, spend more then an hour on your hair like doing up your mo hawk or your faux hawk or any kind of spikey stuff to get "that edgy punk look" have any piece of clothing with the word "fuck" boldy displayed, are a really fat goth kid, have an infatuation with bam margera, there is a pentagram somewhere on you at all times, have a screen name with the words love, kiss, slit throat, death,dying, dead, bleed and or hate, isotope, cold, fuck or fucking, slut, influenza and not excluding rape, knives or knife, lonely, black, kickstand and nine volt. If you fit the description above drop me a line <3!


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Credits

Instant Messenger Conversation: StripXHerXDown
Profile: MySpace

2:44 a. m. » Your Leash Is Too Long

I've met a woman from Pakistan who, in addition to removing her glasses any time a male is in her presence, allows herself to find thatself in an almost ungraspable situation. Her husband lives, at this moment, in a prison for the usage or dealing of what I believe may have been methamphetamines. The man's also in possession of a colorful history, two highlights of which include, one: whoring his penis off to an oral encounter with another male for a hefty twenty dollars of filthy drug money, and, two: having, somewhere in society's circulation since 1999, a bastard child about (he'd married the woman in discussion in 1997 -- this piece of trivia was first offered to her not weeks ago by social services). She was showing me pictures of their wedding, asking if such (described above) homoerotic transactions were common in our culture, and wondering if I thought she should leave the man. She moved on to tell me that she had another love interest residing in Colorado anyway, and even played a message he'd left on her answering machine, wanting to know what I thought of him. I don't think I said it aloud, but never in my life had my ears been exposed to a thirty seconds even remotely as disturbing as those. It sounded as though this man was reciting his love for her through a clap-encrusted trach-ring -- they were the raspiest, dirtiest, most foul and horridly accented "I love you"s that'd ever had the misfortune of finding their way out of any human being's mouth -- ever. I couldn't help it, I finally broke down and asked what the fuck was wrong with his God-damned voice, and after no hesitation, but with a large, possibly proud, grin across her face, she explained that his ex-wife's lover had choked him and destroyed the usability of his vocal chords. I think it was about then when her neighbors came over and made fun of her yeast infection right in front of me again.

4:43 p. m. » The Grass Is Dead. The Gold Is Brown.

A friend told me that he'd no longer consider himself so if I were to pursue a specific female who'd expressed an amount of interest in me. This girl, on probation for battering an ex-boyfriend, several days later punched this friend in the nose and later fell down the stairs. Her persistently trying to seduce me was flattery. Sadly for her, I was convinced that denying her that was at least twice as amusing as actually entertaining that which she sought -- not that it, itself was anything but a shadow and a thought*. I've taken up the drinking of red wine -- not because I'm depressed (Christ knows there's nothing depressing here), but because it makes the pain of that with which I've decided to surround myself such an easier experience to endure. This is costing me my soul. Everyday I awake with a new scratch, bruise, pain, bleed, or scrape. It's the temporary life I've always dreamt of leading.

*Total ROTK cred.

3:14 p. m. » Day 54

I've just accomplished the consumption of ten hot dogs within a 24 hour period. It's an awesomely disgusting feat for a person who finds this kind of food revolting.

2:52 a. m. » Day 49

Honestly things have just gone beyond descriptable.

3:04 a. m. » Day 45

What I failed to mention yesterday was that I'd been made victim of a partially just character assessment by a female I'd never met, in and outside of whose presence I want to refuse to use the proper name of. I just about quote, and word for word, "You've been in a small handful of relationships, most of which were long and serious. All of the girls were beautiful and you probably fucked the shit out of them. You like to dress preppie. [Extensive Pause]. Oh, and you probably walk by lots of women thinking you're better than them." One of the two of about-to-be-said friends absolutely lost it. Tonight, entering an unfamiliar small-town apartment, before making it through the door, my name was called out by someone inside who'd had me recognized. I have no idea who the kid was; he'd known my sisters. This -- all after a night with a friend who not only first admitted that he'd been bribed by his parents with $100 to vote republican, but who later broke down, cheeks beyond moist, voice repetitively cracking, recounting an untellabley depressing story concerning a mutual friend of ours (whom I've known for a decade and a half), and involving the dusk of a piteous relationship -- plus watching a laughing 19 year-old girl rip an Indian woman's pride, emotions, and trust to shreds was not how I'd expected to spend my night.

7:04 a. m. » Day 44

Turns out trying to retain a civilized conversation while two girls roll about the floor, ripping the clothes off one another in a drunken attention starvation is easier than you might think. Doing the same while they press their naked bodies against the cold glass of a sliding door while you stand on the other side happens to be just as. Your offensively questioning the better looking of the two on whether or not she typically achieves that which she seeks by employing this method -- that being shooting inquiries meant to make you feel awkward in a sexual sense, constantly talking about and showing her body, then summing it up with, "Do I intimidate you?" -- and her then trying to make herself cry, explaining that she wants her father to die because he says, for example, that she has lips for blowjobs; is it wrong to willingly and consciously feed off this sort of material for the avoidance of your own boredom? And why these people wrap themselves around your finger, you do not know.

1:37 a. m. » Day 43

I agreed to invest a favor in an old sort of friend. At the end of it, I wasn't able to help with her computer, there were too many unknowns, and, seeing as it was some character I did not know who brought the state upon her in the first place, there really wasn't a great deal that I could do without a series of answered questions. A telephone conversation was initiated on her part, and after not even grazing the subject of the computer, the pair moved on to a session of hostile argument. As I sat there trying to ignore what I could not avoid listening to (which proved to be difficult being that I was seated directly next to her), I learned that a week prior this man had moved out of that very apartment, claiming to need SPACE, that he'd taken all sorts of her THINGS (including the lease), and that he still had a KEY. Within twenty minutes she'd accomplished cornering him into breaking up with her because she couldn't stand the time he needed to think. She then made his doing this over the phone an issue. It all was just too reminiscint of a seperate occurance, dated 1999. The bawling 22 year-old was evidently then to be left in my care. What an ass. I made the comment that I doubted we had time to finish our Scrabble game. Her sister then called which was when I made it obvious that it was time to leave.

Alas, after exactly five weeks arrive the short temper and disgust. It's like there's nothing left to feel.

2:16 a. m. » Day 42

After stumbling upon a hotel while exploring the skyways in our precious downtown area, a friend of mine swiped two chicken strips, one half eaten, off a room-service trash cart. He also went back for condiments. Shortly thereafter he took me into the city's adult bookstore to make sure that the DVD he'd ordered was still being held. He promised the clerk that he'd be back to pay for it the next day, pay day. The man accused him of having been saying this for an entire month. It appeared to be a kind of running joke, while their cracking lewd comments about the exploitation of pregnant redheads seemed to be a habitual cue for saying goodbye. I'm beginning to feel bitter.

3:40 a. m. » Day 39

Tonight I was dragged out of the comfort of my home by a friend who was excessively excited about wanting to show me an album of lost Toadies tracks. He ended up bringing his 17 year-old sister and me to a house where they did drugs, listened to Danzig, and told stories of a friend who's been responsible for four girls' abortions, one baby named Jude, and the spreading of at least two STDs (which he originally claimed was cancer). I don't want to give away too much, but a yearbook may have been used as a tool of reference. Later the two's father called, accusatorily demanding to know what I wanted with his daughter at 1 in the morning on a school night. We listened to Joy Division on the way home. The most saddening moment of the night however was that during which I came to accept the fact that when I thought I'd bought an iPod with that several hundred dollars, it's actually turned out to be nothing more than a garbage bag.

4:05 p. m. » Day 37

The next evening, after being shown the scars, I was badgered into feeling up an acquaintance-like younger girl's newly implanted chest at a public bar, even skin to skin, her trying to show me a mysterious air-bubble -- which I pretended to notice. The entire thing was almost awkward. Later I found out she'd paid for them with her retro-pay child-support checks that the court had just finally forced the father of her child to pay after months and months of his needing the cash to support a Meth-amphetamine habit. The answer is no, that father was not Shari.

2:33 a. m. » Day 36

Tonight truly concreted my being back. I had a twenty minute conversation with --wait, no -- a guy I once didn't really know talked to me for twenty minutes about how he now resides in a township, population: 0, in a trailer, working in a junkyard with this amazing dog named MAX, and, above all, how fucking happy he is. Everyone kept asking me why I was dressed up. Later I went outside and my saliva froze.

11:47 a. m. » Aquì és on sóc. Això és el que estic fent

It's too much. I've lost all hope of documenting well that which I've stood through. Each and every of my thoughts has gone over and beyond the line of subjectivity. I've been right here, at the bottom of this slow-motion avalanche of unregisterables. It's finally evident that I, a proud(ish) citizen of the world, no longer have the capacity to live under these conditions. Is it the city? The country? The continent? Seeing as I've consistently and assumedly undeservedly found myself accused of being from a different planet (which, to me, considering the sources, bears about the same credibility as Xavi's calling me queer), I suppose it could, after all though, be the whole God-forsaken place. A mind, or maybe just this one, can only stand these shocks, these blows, these shifts in perspective so many times. Those who are able to endure it have obviously in possession some sort of accustomarity to or resistance against (maybe even a, Christ forgive them, predilection towards provoking) this suffocating existence to which, apparently, none of us here can help but fall victim -- I might even go as far as to say that they're better people than me. And for this, if I didn’t know any better, I’d have given anything to stay. What I could be referring to is any number of things that have been realized in the past week. Cecile telling me that Serena had asked her why I couldn't be her daddy. The heated argument that broke out between the hated arrogant French woman and the beloved Swedish lesbian, the former of whom who didn't stop at saying that the idea of females being conscience of their own genitals disgusted her, but who continued by saying that feminists did the same; the rest of the class, including the teacher, then ending up stepping outside the room, before long finding ourselves consoling (as well as being blamed as at fault for not staying and supporting) the angry, bawling Scandinavian. In her bed, Serena's throwing up a bucket's worth of vomit set off by her cough; my taking a week off from school to stay home with her as her mother, as she herself put it, absolutely had to work; my learning that she'd been doing the same before school for weeks and almost daily. The mentally disabled nerd-type sitting down two feet from me on the Metro, asking if I liked Star Wars, generously informing that the original was to be aired that afternoon on this particular channel and at this particular time; moving on by pulling a razor blade from his wallet, commencing a kind of scraping, cutting act or ritual at something on the palm of his hand; my noticing a book about vampires on his lap, Serena sitting on mine. The fattest man alive sitting with the runner-up for the women mounted on his lap at eleven a.m. on a Sunday on a bench in one of the city's largest plazas, even Serena finding the sight disagreeable. Cecile's not coming home by nine as promised (my being meant to go to the reception of an illegal wedding) but finally at two -- and with a man; her asking me to go to bed so that they could, again, as she put it, use the living room; then my being forced to listen to the woman, the person, the thing I hate more than a thousand times more than anything I ever have, in what couldn't be mistaken as much other than a disgusting, repulsive state of ecstasy, while still, as if what was already being heard were remotely conceivable as stomachable, my being treated to hearing yet more semi-excessively audible satisfaction thrust into her, again and again and again (all topped off by her sleeping late the next morning, missing her plane, blaming it on her daughter, and asking me to go miles out of my way to some hotel [the name of which she had wrong] in order to drop off an array of gifts [alcohol, cough syrup, anchovies, and cheap Turrón] for whom I can only assume was said sweetheart). Or that which carries the most weight of all (and despite the impossibility to convey the pure disturbance it, itself represents), my teacher confessing to me in the loud, dark discotheque during my supposed going-away celebration that she'd been having an affair with (read: secretly fucking) my close friend, who already has a girlfriend (reminder: threesome), who's been (sometimes solo with just me) in my class for months, who I see almost every day, and, above all, who I confide in and talk to often, all in front of my very (blind) eyes -- and for about a month. That was it though. Right there. And it still is. I'm thinking about how just hours before learning this I was with her discussing that for a male to have a fetish for teachers probably isn't so uncommon, innocently turning to her lover for a confirmation, his vouching, and later after the surprise, her telling me that she had the same but opposite -- and that I didn’t even see it. I’m thinking about how the majority of my nights out had been spent with them both and how what they were all about was completely different to them than me -– the thoughts that must have been going through their heads -- and that I didn’t even see it. I'm thinking about how foolishly drunk and giddy the state she found herself in was while unloading the confidence on me -- like the little girl she thinks she is, on the verge of bursting, as not able to discuss or reveal to anyone this precious thing, throbbing, probably painful, it easily carrying the potential of costing her her job -- and that I didn’t even see it. I'm thinking about all the inconsistencies in their stories and plans as of late and my ignorantly blaming the language barrier. The night the relationship groaned its first groan, my leaving them alone in that supersaturated bar, him mouthing at me, begging me not to leave him alone with her, my walking away making a joke about the very preposterous impossibility that would go on to pass within an hour. How unfathomably awkward class must have been this past month for the two of them, and how he's stayed home for at least half the days, and how paranoid they've both been, and, again, how it was right there in front of my face, and how ridiculously unconscious I was to any of it. How I once asked her if she felt proud seeing her students, like him, speaking Castellano with natives and her simply saying yes. God fucking help me, I'm thinking of her, almost chubby, probably on the verge of ten years older than him, lying in bed after ñaca ñaca, them kissing -- or even worse: talking. I didn’t even see it. The monkey, the undone pants, the I love you, the Coca-Cola, the six-hundred Euro, the rolling, the terrace, the xinos, the xurros, the undeniable fact that I'm always fucking right. All of it, everything, always just when the time couldn't be any better. The posts I never even published. The false starts. The ones I never even wrote, too real, not having the heart for the exploitation. It just kept coming. An old man (the same I once encountered pulling a VCR along the sidewalk by its cord) dragging the upper portion of a streetlamp across the road. On the Metro a Spaniard picking, as if (God knows it would have been that much more excusable) it were his nose, the inside of his ear and finally eating whatever it was he'd found. A group of sixteen year-old girls outside a train station smoking marijuana while snorting cocaine off of the pavement. A brawl breaking out in an indie bar. That third-floor dwelling, assumedly gorgeous (never gathered the courage to really look, let alone bring up the weather) girl in the elevator again -- the same one who two weeks ago held the door for me for a full twenty seconds. A reflection from afar, judged before being recognized as my own. That my teachers saw me wearing a different face than the one I'd carried before. Acid rain and its cause serving to soften the fabric, the potential to forget how it is to as a community bear that repugnance which can only be seen by the outside. That I'd never known what it was to laugh. That, not only does paper bear no weight, but that no one even knows it. That it's like slaloming the rules. That the more I try to lose my bearings, the more they can't help but be found. That the twilight of my life here had set in and that along with it had come the insomnia, the dread, the impatience, and worst of all the semi-kinetic nostalgia that sparks this necessity to use metaphors. That actual beauty, at the end of it, isn't found on the inside, but on the out -- and that it's probably only what it is because it's got its path. I’m doing this on purpose because I want to do it again -– but, really, how can I be expected to leave? Isn’t it too late for that? The air I breathed, once inside my lungs, my body, or, really, everything else I left in general -- it's all still there, once or momentarily mine, now reciprocated into the streets, the tunnels, the tramlines, the pipes, the empty lots, and, most surely of all, the fucked up battery I could’t help but appreciate or probably love. I’m taking a piece of it with me, for all that I’ve left behind. I thought I had an idea of how it was going to end, and it’s not yet implausible. I smelled the city this morning for the first time. The exhaust, the perspiration, the smoke, the shit, the asphalt, the iron. It was like falling forwards. The only reason it being there because it wouldn't be tomorrow.

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."

10:36 p. m. » Another Day...

Let yesterday's date be remembered as the one that involved my receiving a phone call from Cecile at eight in the evening, asking me, who was currently occupied with a just-bathed half-naked four year-old, to come down to the street because the police had stopped her for stealing a shopping cart from a store located about two miles from our apartment. If you're wondering why she didn't just take a taxi, the tram, the metro, or the bus (all very convenient) for carrying her things (which included two bags and a small plastic shelf) like the rest of the city does, especially considering the previously told-about 36 year-old 22 year-old was in her company -- so am I. After speaking with the police officer, using excuses such as "sorry, it's just that I'm so... short" (though her friend, who's now been confirmed as being as tall as me, remember, was at her side), for a nevertobediscovered reason, she made it my responsibility to take the cart to its home. This involved my pushing an empty shopping cart over what were some of the most ragged sidewalks I've ever walked, then along one of the two most main avenues, down which the tram also runs, in the entire city of Barcelona, the second largest city in Spain, while practicing in my head how to apologetically explain to the police that I lived with a very sick woman who had somehow managed to escape my watch and run a goddamn shopping cart halfway across the city. Luckily, I was not stopped by another officer, though upon returning the cart I was given a mouthful from a Catalesian oldie, in exchange for which I offered the same manners I give the homeless freaks who habitually play the (plastic) fucking flute outside my apartment. Finally, after returning home, Cecile, laughing and nearly drunk already, told me I could keep the 1€ deposit. I then went out and spent it on jelly beans -- which had to have been years old.

This is the kind of shit I'm talking about.

5:01 p. m. » GHOSTS

I totally wasn't the one who made that last post, but it somehow showed up. OMG QUÉ RARO. To get right to the point, there have been a few heavy topics I've avoided discussing here for various reasons -- most of which having to do with certain Europeans stumbling upon them. That might change. I'm beginning to not care. Here's all I have for you today...

1

2

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7:55 a. m. » blogger ain't posting.....

again again again... it isn't posting stuff. I feel like you have to drown it with posts before it gets off its butt... .

7:08 p. m. » Look the Other Way

My having to log at least something has been realized as 87% necessary. I've either grown too accustomed to strange happenings or my surroundings have at last resolved to leave me in tranquility for some sort of ¿short? while. I'm now the school slut, as I have finally achieved having (as in "studying under" -- I'M NOT THAT LUCKY, LOL) each and every teacher at least once -- one of my favorites of whom, Anabel from Galicia, who, by my observations, more than anything else loves to laugh, can be seen below with a post-it® note pasted to her forehead. I can't decide what to tell you about this girl other than her coming out of the ex-NKOTB-obsessor's closet IN CLASS, but only after squeezing every last drop of a detail out of me concerning me and my friends' once staying outside a Minneapolis mall all of a cold, cold night for an intimate in-person meeting of The Smashing Pumpkins, one of whom was not even present (though compensation was granted by their giving us his cousin to sign "IHA" in his place [mind still blown]), for about one minute. Before today the extent of ridiculousness that this event contained was never made clear -- I have Anabel to thank for the remedy of this. Besides the French 30 year-old who sits across from me's confessing to us all that if he could fight one thing in the world it would be "the cunts" (a statement that makes about as much sense in Spanish as in English), nothing incredibly extraordinary has lately come to pass at school -- unless of course you count a British man actually using the adjective "blokey" in my presence.

6:22 p. m. » Eso no es lo que me dijiste ayer

The graffiti here is always so awesome...



Another example.



mmh9iti4c4r783234++`¡``+

That was a message from Serena... which she says means "because always I'm going to have some money from I push these buttons"

:(

1:53 a. m. » Frenzy

Ok, for the first few days I may or may not play proud dad and post all kinds of photos... mainly of Serena. You were asking for it anyway. Here are a couple more pictures:

Our house from the street... under construction

What happens to her face when I bring up ice cream. Um... I KNOW.

11:04 a. m. » SPAIN DAY; NO SCHOOL

Unnecessity of the week: my new unmistakably gay teacher constantly using examples such as this in lessons: Busco a un chico que hable inglés.

SERENA THIS MORNING

Then with some guy...

11:53 p. m. » New Era

First attempt at international camera phone usage. This should change things, I'm now able to show you photos on a regular basis. ANYWAY, I give you... my best friend in Barcelona... the beautiful and lovely... Serena.... finally.......

3:32 p. m. » Curioso...

Two posts in one day, how rare, but still, this is urgent. Yesterday while walking along the same side of the same street I walk three times each Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I was nearly hit in the face by a baby pacifier that hung from the limb of a tree. This morning the thing was gone, but after school, in a completely different zone of the city, there was another one lying next to me on the bench in the Metro station -- but inside this strange container. I decided to come home to write and post this as soon as possible, knowing it would jinx any kind of supernatural happenings (and by the way, I'm not referring to my [nonexistent] worrying about having gotten anyone pregnant, if that's what you've interpreted) that may or may not have been taking place. Now this story can't get any better. Sorry.

1:01 p. m. » Más deberes.

En primer lugar, este chico me parece que está loco. En segundo lugar, me parece que tú también. ¿Qué pasa contigo? Es muy difícil ayudar alguien que suena tan idiota. Escúchame. Si yo fuera tú, me olvidaría de ese burro inmediatamente porque es evidente que no le interesas. En realidad, deberías olvidar el sexo masculino completamente, pero seguramente es demasiado pedir a alguien que ya tiene tantos problemas. Además, te sugeriría que, si quieres a tu novio de verdad, yo le pediría que rompiera contigo por el bien de él. O quizá no. Porque él era lo bastante estupido como para quedarse contigo después de lo que pasó, entonces, probablemente tu eres lo que se merece. Por último, te aconsejaría que pararas de escribir cartas que molestan a la mayoría de la población. Gracias.

Confidential to Kat: You might just go with the obvious...

4:05 p. m. » Mi culpa.

As the comments have built up on the most previous post, something makes me think I should create another. Here's the problem: lately there have been more reasons than ever to submit, but I'm afraid I'm presently convinced that my readership, as a general lot, have not the, well, I don't know, to handle what would be read -- last night's headbutting with a certain person (and an afterthought: as well as the everlasting that with the idea of irony) is a (are) too perfect example(s) of this. For more instances, ask me about our unit on compliments, Happy Miércoles with the students and Marga, or the incident concerning cocaine that occured with the proprieter of the cliché Catalesian restaurant (not as guay as it sounds). I've been moved up in shool again. I'm now in Book 4. I should just be starting Book 2. One of my new teachers is a complete homosexual, loves bringing a pair of lesbians into every example he conjures (in spite of the butch Australian in our class?), answers most questions with a high pitched, too long laugh, and evidently enjoys displaying his belly. The other is from Galicia, and sounds like she's singing as she speaks. Everything has changed. I've been so lucky as to meet and befriend several actual Spaniards; with and as this, I have finally been introduced, properly, to Spain -- or at least to Catalonia. The two main players here are Eva and Oscar. Though it was weeks ago, the first few days spent with each of them were a sort of rough. The first thing Oscar asked me was if I liked soccer. The next thing he asked was if I liked motorcycles. You can imagine the immediate outlook we had on any kind of friendship. Nothing incredibly terrible or exciting happened with Eva at first, other than my understanding her to say that she's a prostitute (my fault) and her understanding me to say (see some previous post) that I have a Pakistani gay lover (my fault as well). Though many other large changes have come to pass, I'd have to say one of the most important is that I've been wearing my pants much much lower.

3:07 a. m. » Gerundio

It's like 3 am. WTFs. Where do I start? Switching classes again? Meeting the Dutch strongman with the eye that twitches? Multiple instances of hanging out with the Spanish dude who resembles Ross from FRIENDS in an excessive manner? Receiving the note from Marga? The French 40 year-old in the wheelchair (with the attractive and gratuitously tattooed/pierced 22 year-old girlfriend hanging all over him the entire time) staying at our home and also spilling beer all over me (20 minutes before my boarding the metro and sitting down on a wet seat -- ay ay ay)? Receiving an email from that Spanish girl, confessing her feelings for me? Jesus in the mornings? Vila Olímpica with Cecile and the other oldies, featuring Freddie's freakout? My haircut? The four swiss/zimers sleeping in our apartment this weekend? Moving to a new apartment soon? Speaking Spanish? My camera phone? Planning the switch to yet another class? Mom coming in a week? Sister coming in two? Where do I start? Over. Though each may or may not deserve its own post, consider each story told. Next post will be fresh.

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.

3:26 a. m. » Christ

Ok I can tell you right now this post is going to be badly thought out and terrible. I'm drunk as a skunk and I just got home. I had some kind of conversation with the taxi driver but all I remember is asking him what time it was. He said it was three something. Jesus. Not too late. I spent the night with some Québecois folk or whatever, one of whom I'm certain wants me but she looks like Shannon what's her name from high school and I'm taken anyway so forget about it. She said I wasn't a typical American, whater that means, but I couldn't return the COMPLIMENT because I don't really know many Canadienses. Also I was with a dude from Norway, the Swiss girl, and some other girl with whom I didn't talk. Earlier another American and a German Swiss type were with us. Barcelona. Qué va. I told the Taxista A BOGATELL, RAMON TURRÓ. He kept asking me what number. Cincuenta y nueve. How many times did I say it and how many times did he ask Trienta? OK once. He handed me some fucking book and I said muy bien no se es extraño no se. 6€ later he got me close enough to home and I said aqui aqui aqui es muy bien gracias. What a pansy. I'd wanted to ask Que tal but totally pussied out. Very efficient man anyway. I've had muchas cervezas et beaucoup de vin -- lisp and all. I have to study. Tomorrow I'm staying in. Some dude offered me drugs on the street and I ignored him, ¡then a bum started yelling at the American not to touch his shit (and in French)! What is the meaning of life? Why is the sky blue? How many licks does is take to get to the center of a tootsie roll tootsie pop? O.F.F. tha hook. No se. Es muy facil. Hasta pronto.

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.

12:44 p. m. » Relief!

Serena continues to be an enormous delight. We now take daily strolls through the neigborhood or city, stopping here and there for an errand or a site. She will not allow me to cross a street unless our light is green.

As far as music goes, she detests that for children to such a degree that she'll go as far as throwing a fit if the genre is not immediately changed. She takes most kindly to darker sounds ie. The Faint, The Cure, and The Depeche Mode. Her favorite song, however, is track five of The Rentals' Seven More Minutes -- charming for sure. After watching a fairly tale type DVD, I asked her which character was her favorite. She answered by telling me that she wants to be the evil sorceress.

10:26 a. m. » Cigarettes Kill

Today I was, by who knows what, inspired to take what little Spanish I´ve memorized for a public sort of trial run. I report that it was, more or less, a mediocre success. I challenged myself to apply the utmost pressure by approaching (how to word this?) the most mercilessly gorgeous passerby available -- of whom there, as I believe have yet to tell, is an unjust abundance -- and ask him (uh??) or her for a light. After more than several cowardly retreats, each complete with its own ridiculously excessive and unwarranted list of excuses, I settled on a Spanish (semi-)MILF of sorts (pathetically, all the strength I could muster), who obliged, but who wore constantly an 'I can see how trying that was for you' kind of smile on her sun and time leathered unprintable face. I have hence made the decision to immediately, and again, stop smoking, as it is butting my mental health (a topic on which I've spent immeasurable amounts of energy avoiding discussing here of late) even further into jeopardy. On this there's just so much to say. With, and for such a length!, great percentages like these of one's time allotted or left for haunting oneself, even in the presence of familiar company, one begins to feel overly (obsessively?) self-conscious and self-critical, as s/he seems to be the only one (obviously, but you surely understand what was meant?) with whom to be so. Sometimes there is just so little to say. Am I gonna die? Am I gonna die? I purchased an additional three books today, as they've shown to be the most effective distraction from myself. There is always hope my friends! I may make it yet to December!

12:27 a. m. » Three Amigas

Tonight three gay dudes are staying in the house, all of them sharing one small futon mattress (and in a room smaller than mine). Cecile did feed me, before their arrival, the morsel of knowledge that they were going to be, in fact, gay, but somehow I think one of their referring to his scrotum as his "purse" surely would have given away this secret nevertheless. I was asked to join them for tonight´s Barcelona Centre-Ville drunken romp, and thought, "how can I pass up an opportunity like this?" -- but did anyway. As we sat on the terrace enjoying a bit of food, one of them scolded Serena, teaching her that she should stop eating so much salami, because the white spots would turn her into a giant little pig. Later when I entered my bathroom to (LITERALLY) sharpen my pencil, I was(n´t?) surprised to see the Mexican one smiling, staring, and dripping wet, naked in my shower.

10:13 a. m. » The Little Angel and the Little Bugs

Serena was, but after her hopelessly recurring (and daily) morning swing of violent and verbally abusive rage, on her best behavior today; something that is -- I was inclined to say "always," but cannot (and remain honest), as this nature has not yet shown any sort of frequency -- a relief, I suppose you could say. I discovered a dozen or more brownie-sized fractions of styrofoam in the lower-lever bathroom sink today while doing soo-soo -- I didn´t wash my hands. She almost got away with this art project after (again, almost) breaking my little heart by explaining that she´d made it for me because she couldn´t find any more paper (?). I assembled a kiddie chair and table for our little darling, which also fed today´s (suspiciously?) constant chain of charm. I can no longer remember what my point there was (I may have been approaching one having to do with how smart she is or isn´t?), but it may thrill you to learn that I have no fewer than 31 insect bites on my body, and spied, today, a small centipede-like creature in the house, a site that sparked all sorts of speculation and imagery of these gatuitously limbed beasts leisurely zigzagging up and down my limbs as I slept, which didn´t bother me because of how hideous I find them or how much I downright loathe them -- because I do, I mean, really, these thoughts happened to ignite a sort of fire (where that of heartburn more commonly [yet not so] pains) that can only be equated to nothing less than one lit by a fuck-you as grand as finding the bane of your (ever damaging and repressed) high school lifetime giving it to your "virgin" girlfriend in the ass (without a condom) in, say, I don´t know, your own self-bought car that you lent her for the night so she could visit her newly detonsiled little brother in the hospital -- no, what´s worse is that these miniature monsters were feasting only upon my blood, and not the others´! NOT FAIR. I have, thus, decided to buy a new pair of shoes.

I tried to locate my school this weekend by making a "dry run," and only learned that, as far as I could tell, it doesn´t even exist. This is exactly what I was afraid of -- already these tasteless pranks on the only Jew in this entire pointy-looking-peopled city (¿or country even?), and he´s not even Jewish.

Anyway, Serena, you´ve doubtlessly gathered, has been a true lamb, but who, I ask you, has ever heard of a small child who dislikes both chocolate and cheese (a question to which some relative replied, "Who´s ever heard of an American who dislikes both ketchup and marshmallows?" -- Touché! Eat shit.)?