Is this blog dead? I don’t tend to it. I’ve let it wilt. I’ve let it crumble. I haven’t updated in like, a month. Oh, what's that, you say? Over a month? Is that so? Well. Shit. I'm sorry. This laziness and neglect and being-busy is about to change! I promise. I’m back in my home country with very little to do except reminisce on sunny Spanish days. (See: Masochism.) Among other stories, the continued adventures of Meow-Meow Walsh and Whiskers need to be told. Don’t give up on me yet.
The journey back was rather smooth—I occupied myself on the plane by watching the only episode of 30 Rock the on-flight entertainment had available (in which Liz comments that her gynecologist committed suicide over the summer, and Jack wants to keep the “elk tongue” colored walls in his home), sat through that piece-of-shit Natalie Portman/Ashton Kutcher movie about being fuck-buddies and falling in love, blahblahblah (except they cut out any remotely graphic sex and swearing…so…well, why even bother?), and enjoyed roughly twelve minutes of the Justin Beiber documentary Never Say Never. Unfortunately I began the documentary too late—the captain cut off the plane’s entertainment system twenty minutes before landing. Bastard. Netflix it is, then.
In the DC airport I popped into Starbucks to get a snackysnack before my connecting flight to Chicago, and what luck—I got in line at precisely the right time: directly after a very wealthy old man whose only purchase was a small, $3 bottle of water. I was carrying a duffel bag that was completely torn down the side (and "fixed" with a piece of worn duct tape) because I’ve shoved too much shit in it one too many times. (Literally, I just carry heaps of poop in my bag when I travel.) My leggings had multiple rips in them that I will never bother to fix. I looked genuinely rabid from hunger. I hadn’t bathed in…a while. I received a bit of unwanted attention in Spain for being blonde, so when the old guy in front of me kept glancing back, I first assumed he was being a huge old man creep. When it came time to pay for my overpriced fruit and yogurt cup, he instructed the barista, “Just charge it (my fruit and yogurt cup) to my card.” He turned to me, “I’ve got tons of money on there.” My gut instinct was that he needed to be told that saying that out loud makes him sound like a douchebag. I suppressed the instinct. I pretended to protest, “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” He was determined. “No, no, no. I’ve got tons of money. (Again? Really?) Just a random…act of kindness.” And then it hit me: he wasn’t being a creepy old guy…he thought I was homeless.
Overall, being in ‘Murrica is a little underwhelming. I honestly expected a deep, disturbing depression, but the transition has been…shockingly fine. Yes, I’ve had to re-train my arm and hand muscles to reach for the side of the toilet to flush, instead of reaching for the button on top, as the more cultured European arms do. Yes, I occasionally forget that everyone around me can understand me and I say something inappropriate in front of children in public. Yes, the food here sucks and I can’t even order a fucking glass of wine if I wanted to. Regardless, I’ve almost survived my first week: I spent three days at home, didn’t end my life after the Harry Potter midnight premiere (just dry heaved a lot in the theater), and have spent a successful afternoon drinking coffee from a large cup (the American way), eavesdropping on families simply because they’re speaking English and I delight in the renewed pleasure of being able to understand every word spoken around me, eating perfect rectangles of Hershey’s chocolate (I’ve missed them so), and getting completely engrossed in one of Second City’s youtube series, Cougar Lesbians.
|Molly Weasley, with daughter-in-law Hermione Granger,|
before the midnight premiere.
|Meow-Meow Walsh and Whiskers are very special!|
|A-dwag's appearance in Granada!|
|I miss my Dutch housemates, and El Camborio in their company.|