Duckie Does Deutschland

but God who'd want to be such an asshole?

Sat, 19 Jul 2008 11:38:48 -0400

me: if God were just, I'd be dead.
Lena: uhhh...no, Kennedy. if God were just, you'd be HAPPY.
me: semantics...

and it really makes me wonder if I ever gave a fuck about you...

Sat, 19 Jul 2008 02:01:00 -0400

have no idea when one of my exams is…should be more concerned about this than I currently am given that I’m leaving on Wednesday and know absolutely nothing about this class. hmmm….maybe they’ll just do me this solid?

almost time to go back to the States! very curious about Seattle. I asked my dad if I could have a kitten. he sighed. I think I can go ahead and take that as an unequivocal yes.

first business of order: bookstore. desperate desperate desperate. quickly followed by a huge burger cooked MEDIUM RARE and unlimited refills on drink of my choice.

now back to lilo and stitch.

Invisible Pink Unicorn Part I

Thu, 17 Jul 2008 09:29:00 -0400

******* WARNING: Spoiler vis a vis “The Life of Pi” at bottom of this post. *******

So begins a (potential) series of posts on the moral bankruptcy of atheists and the ludicrousness of believing that triumphant life such as it is could ever have “evolved” by accident without the guidance of a supreme and loving being. Equally likely is that I will lose interest and just make t-shirts instead. But, I would like to get my thoughts in order before I have a hopefully fruitful conversation with Panda. Rambling on here will hopefully help me get down all of the reasons I think religion is dangerous bullshit before then.

The Goddess with the fondness for socks has inspired me this early morning to say a few words on an observation that floated around in the back of my mind for years before a particular fantasy novel I was reading solidified it. I actually think I mentioned it before. The Gods were extremely human. In particular I remember the God of Love who was petulant and self-interested and constantly pouting to people and asking them if they loved her. My thought was this. Even if a supreme being DOES exist and his/her existence can be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt, so WHAT? Why does his/her existence naturally lead to the conclusion that we should worship this all-powerful entity? Because we owe it our existence? And? Children owe their parents their existence as well. That doesn’t make their parents a moral authority on anything. Plenty of parents are big assholes. And the thing is, the Christian God, at the very least, is a huge JERK. It’s appalling that people would actually want to worship him, even if you can get beyond the absolute absurdity of believing this acid-trip tale of virgin births, resurrections, and bread that turns into flesh as it is being consumed (and eww gross…later turns into shit?) by millions of apparently cannibalistic Catholics. He claims to be infallible and omniscient, then he creates Man with the capacity for evil and destruction. Then he punishes Man for succumbing to that which is inherent in the nature given to him by his creator. And then he shrugs his shoulder while RAINING DOWN SULFUR ON EVERYONE as if to say, well this is all YOUR fault?!?! If he’s omniscient, then he KNEW what would happen and yet he didn’t see fit to tweak his design in the slightest. It can’t be both ways. Either he’s infallible, in which case he wanted this to happen and is a huge sadistic asshole, or he made a mistake, in which case one of his main claims for authority (omniscience and perfection) is completely undermined.

I used to be an agnostic. Agnosticism is to atheists as bi-sexuality is to gay men: a safe place to pause before full acceptance of the truth. As long as I was an agnostic, I had no problem with other people believing. For a while there I envied them and in fact resented that my faith had been taken away from me by my intelligence. But gradually I’ve become more and more hostile toward religion, longing with greater and greater fervency for its complete eradication. Dawkins has a great quote that touches on reasons for my own hostility. But in order to understand his reference, I have to post an excerpt from Bertrand Russell on why the burden of proof does NOT lie with the skeptic of religion:

“If I were to suggest that between the Earth and Mars there is a china teapot revolving about the sun in an elliptical orbit, nobody would be able to disprove my assertion provided I were careful to add that the teapot is too small to be revealed even by our most powerful telescopes. But if I were to go on to say that, since my assertion cannot be disproved, it is an intolerable presumption on the part of human reason to doubt it, I should rightly be thought to be talking nonsense. If, however, the existence of such a teapot were affirmed in ancient books, taught as the sacred truth every Sunday, and instilled into the minds of children at school, hesitation to believe in its existence would become a mark of eccentricity and entitle the doubter to the attentions of the psychiatrist in an enlightened age or of the Inquisitor in an earlier time.”

And now for Dawkins:

“The reason organized religion merits outright hostility is that, unlike belief in Russell’s teapot, religion is powerful, influential, tax-exempt and systematically passed on to children too young to defend themselves. Children are not compelled to spend their formative years memorizing loony books about teapots. Government-subsidized schools don’t exclude children whose parents prefer the wrong shape of teapot. Teapot-believers don’t stone teapot-unbelievers, teapot-apostates, teapot-heretics and teapot-blasphemers to death. Mothers don’t warn their sons off marrying teapot- shiksas whose parents believe in three teapots rather than one. People who put the milk in first don’t kneecap those who put the tea in first.”

Finally, on those who choose to believe because it makes their lives more comfortable. I still find myself somewhat compelled by this reasoning, though I can’t imagine that many people could receive genuine comfort from something they deep down believe to be fantastical. However, one of my favorite reads of the last few months addresses this in its final pages. I’ll post it below. I think that maybe we just need practice at accepting that when we die, that’s all we get. And that no benevolent entity in the sky is invested in our welfare. I would imagine that if we hadn’t grown up thinking this only to have that comfort snatched away, but rather never had the comfort to begin with, we wouldn’t feel a loss.

“You’re welcome. But before you go, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977.”
“Yes.”
“And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole human survivor of the Tsimtsum, on February 14th, 1978.”
“That’s right.”
“I told you two stories that account for the 227 days in between.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Neither explains the sinking of the Tsimtsum.”
“That’s right.”
“Neither makes a factual difference to you.”
“That’s true.”
“You can’t prove which story is true and which is not. You must take my word for it.”
“I guess so.”
“In both stories the ship sinks, my entire family dies, and I suffer.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with the animals or the story without animals?”
“That’s an interesting question…”
“The story with the animals?”
“Yes. The story with the animals is the better story.”
“Thank you. And so it is with God.”

same question, different perspectives.

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 20:34:00 -0400

Me: This is going to hurt a lot, isn't it.
Lena: What? You cut yourself for fun, Kennedy. You'll be fine.
*
Me: This is going to hurt a lot, isn't it.
Lars (tattoo artist): Yes.
Me: ...
Lars: Are you SURE you want it there?

the mess that you left behind

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 10:49:00 -0400

out out damn spot.

July 4th

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 17:50:00 -0400

“The Babel fish is small, yellow and leech-like, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on the brainwave energy received not from its own carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combing the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language.”

T - 4 Days.

put that flag down, you nazi

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 06:16:00 -0400

less than 24 hours after Deutschland lost the EM to Spain, and already the nationalistic fervor has been smothered. after weeks of drunken men shouting “‘tschland!” to random passersby and “Mode Fans” (usually female) painting their cheeks with german stripes, the glory days are, unequivocally, over. without football as an excuse to rally together and sing their anthem and chant to their God, “Lu Lu Lu - Lucas Podolski!”, germans will return to their quiet, inoffensive way, glaring at anyone who hangs a flag from their window and immediately assuming that person has plans for the next genocide and a battered copy of Mein Kampf in their back pocket. while I appreciate contrition, (and can, now that I mention it, think of several people who could use some of the runoff from germany’s obvious overabundance), enough is e-fucking-nough. I think you’ve paid your dues, guys. it’s been over 60 years. none of the rest of us will think anything of you wanting to be a little happy you’re german outside of a sports context. so go forth! be patriotic! and don’t wait two years until the next World Cup to show your cold, german love.

I kissed a girl and I liked it

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 00:05:55 -0400

Dresden. Take two.

This was my favorite city in Germany when my program went a-travelin’. So after gradually shifting from asking me if I wanted to go with her to referring to “our hotel,” Lena finally got me to agree to take a train and check it out again. Our entire relationship is a war of attrition. I’m always losing.

Tonight I went out on the roof outside of our window seeking solace in the usual places: my iPod and a cigarette. So caught up was I in my rendition of Okkervil River’s For Real, I didn’t notice that the hotel restaurant’s wait staff had stepped out for a cigarette and were sitting on the steps below me. Now staring at me. In awe and confusion. These looks were not flattering. Reluctantly I took out one ear bud and asked the girl with the most piercing stare if she was speaking to me.

“Ja”
“Noch einmal?”
“Hallo.”

I put my headphones back on. Did a mental calculation to work out the odds that they were calling security to come and escort me back inside or the police to talk the jumper down. We’re on the first floor. Things seemed to be in my favor. But then a manager looking man came out and seemed to be talking. The ear bud came out again.

“Bitte?”
“Alles klar?”
”Well since you asked…” I thought to myself.
“Ja, alles fit.”

He gave me one more incredulous look and then retreated back into shadow. I guess I was safe. The view was incredible, the weather crisp.

Are We There Yet?

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 01:44:11 -0400

Wednesday I forewent a riveting lecture on Roman Mythology, for what at this point must be the 7th consecutive week, in favor of a nice fireside chat with my German shrink. One might hope that I would leave Europe with a stronger sense of self, a broadened world view, and a newfound desire to live. In any case, I guess now I can express abstract thoughts in a foreign language. After drawing out my family tree- not in the her sophisticated use of metaphor has figuratively drawn us a picture way; I would have been content with verbal description; she insisted stick-figures were necessary- she asked me how things were going with my friends. Lucy and Lena had been visiting for roughly a week and she was hoping that my spirits had been lifted by their presence. This led to a discussion of my general sense of isolation and how having friends physically present only served to remind me of the spaces that never left. I thought (but did not share) of the many times I imagined myself (read: fantasized about) smothering my body against someone else’s in a childish effort to literally close the gap. Forcefully, violently. It is an assault. Driven by desperation. The way a man might shake his lover to prevent her from leaving him after a fight in one of those Victorian romance novels I used to read in middle school. I looked up and realized that she had asked me a question.
“Bitte?”
“Wollen Sie sterben?”
“Gerade jetzt?”
“Im Allgemeinen.”
“…….”
“…….”
“…….”
“das ist immer am Tisch. Sagt man das auf Deutsch?”

She asks me if I have an age in mind after I explain that I figured I’m only 21 and could see if things might improve. Some people, it seems, give birthday deadlines. If I’m not happy by year 30, I’m sticking the cake and my head in the oven. I had nothing so firm in mind. She seemed comforted by this, and I found myself wondering why. The way things stand, without some goal in mind, I could just give up on a whim. I could walk home one day and the next some reporter with the A Tragedy Has Befallen This Community Voice could be interviewing baffled acquaintances and roommates who couldn’t think of anything specific that had happened that day.

But I digress. None of this is what I actually want to say. What I really want to tell youmesomeone is that the trip is off. First Panda said she was too eager to be with her boyfriend. Then, just now, Gwen said that her husband’s job situation had changed such that a trip to South America for three months was no longer possible. For some reason I couldn’t understand she suggested I go by myself. I thought about my options for the next school year. I could go back to Harvard. I could go stay with my parents in Seattle. I could spend it with Gwen and the kids. I could spend it in New York with Lena. I could kill myself. And there it was. Unbidden, unexpected it arrived. In tidy order single file behind the other choices. Like it belonged. Like it was no more the black sheep of the family. No, worse than the black sheep. The perverted uncle who might molest the children if he was left alone with them. It had somehow wheedled its way into the family. It was a bastard child no more. Years of persistence had been rewarded with legitimization. It might have been a fluke. But it wasn’t. Because 10 minutes later when Gwen idly said, “i will just have to find a way to get there with everyone one day,” my immediate thought was, “hopefully I’ll be dead by then.” I was appalled. Hopefully I’ll be dead? When had this happened? When had I started expecting that resolve and certainty about taking my life and not eventual happiness were to be my reward? She mentioned something about hope, and I snorted. Out loud. A while later she mentioned it again and my soul rolled its eyes. And yet, I don’t feel particularly driven to throw myself out the window. The actual state of things seems much more sinister. It really is on the table. Not like a meal that is eaten and removed, but like a center piece. Sure, it can be switched around from season to season, but it still has a permanence. And so it seems that this is where logic and rationality have led me. I know what you’re thinking. Most of you anyway. And I resent you for it. People think that when you’re suicidal you want to hear about how much they love you and need you and would miss you if you were gone. Like thinking about slitting your wrists is just some way of fishing for compliments gone epically wrong. But every time I hear those three words, I hear them for what they are: a threat. I love you…sodon’tkillyourselforelse. All I really want to hear is that you understand. And that you’ll continue to understand if and when I give up.

Dear Kaiya, sad for her loss, 10/31/2007,

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 13:34:24 -0400

There are laws PUNISHABLE BY DEATH against giving away crucial plot details in book reviews on B&N.com. Bibliophiles have spent centuries cultivating the fine art of the specific and exquisite torture that awaits traitors like you. You just ruined AN ENTIRE TRILOGY, YOU STUPID CUNT!!!!!

I vow that I will hunt you down and wreak such turmoil in your soul that the wings of Satan himself will not generate enough wind to douse the flames of your agony. At the very least, anticipate hate e-mail in your near future.

Worthless cow.

harumph.

Sat, 31 May 2008 12:47:30 -0400

I have a cold. In the middle of late spring. On a continent that, apparently, doesn’t believe in air-conditioning. Pathetically, since I’ve finally started eating, I actually feel physically better with this cold than I have for the past month at least.

I went to therapy yesterday. I admit that I was terrified. Either because I was worried it wouldn’t work (this is my third therapist), or because I was scared of German intolerance for tardiness (I just completely skipped my last appointment without calling), I had been dragging my feet (read: having panic attacks every time I thought about rescheduling) for weeks. But I finally made it. It wasn’t life affirming, but there’s something to be said for having to speak in German. Normally, I find myself almost in competition with my therapists. It’s bizarre, and unhealthy, but what can I say? Anyway, it’s harder to feel on equal communicative grounds when you have to ask the word for “to find out” (herausfinden). We’ll see how it goes.

I asked my mom the other day if she was ever tempted to read my blog. Both she and my father were given the address after the first posting, and neither she nor my dad have read it since the first posting. When I asked her why, she replied that she found it “offensive.” Even braced for her typical craziness, I was sort of thrown off by that one. Offended? I went back through early posts to fetter out something that would disturb her sensibilities. I guess I said fuck a lot? But I think that what really bothers her is my open discussion of my depression. It’s not even that she thinks it will leave me with no friends, no husband, and no job prospects. It’s the Southern Belle in her rearing its appropriate head. Because in the South, one does not air one’s dirty laundry in public. I understand her concern, but I have to stand by my decision: stigmas don’t leave societies because they’re discussed in hushed whispers behind closed doors.

Dear Germans: An Open Letter

Thu, 29 May 2008 16:03:19 -0400

1) Americans do NOT eat McDonald’s and Burger King every night. Like you, it’s generally the sort of shit we buy at 3 am because we’re wasted and nothing else is open. Contrary to what you seem to believe, we do, in fact, have an eating culture. You’re just confused because it’s so much better than YOURS. You see, America is a country of immigrants. That means that when people arrive on our shores, they bring with them their beliefs, their songs, their languages, and most importantly, their chicken tikka masala. I know this seems odd to a people of Aryans, but I swear, Mcnuggets are not considered a culinary delicacy by anyone over the age of 6. Please come try our food. I would suggest that you start with Southern food (deep fried and delightful), then move on to TexMex immediately followed by BBQ. Feel free to skip over the middle of the country, casseroles aren’t really all that impressive, and move on to some seafood on either coast. Finally, pop back to Indiana or one of those other places no one can pick out in the center of a US map for some homemade apple pie. Yum.

2) Please stop giving me shocked looks when I refer to some aspect of German history. A few weeks ago someone asked me if they taught us anything about Germany in American high schools.

…

You started TWO WORLD WARS. But no. They didn’t mention you.

Martina, you are SUCH A BAD INFLUENCE

Tue, 27 May 2008 20:35:32 -0400

2: 00 am. class in 7 hours. drunk. GERMANY I CAN’T KEEP UP WITH YOUR DRINKING HABITS.

And her parting words were, of course, soo Friday? Beer? Dancing? More beer? Meals seem completely unnecessary with the amount of beer these people drink. How can you fit sausage in your stomach? I just saw you drink 4 LITERS OF PILS.

Sleep sleep sleep. Feeling better. At first, I admit, I felt pretty pathetic. Here I was, feeling sad all over again when I had been well on my way to recovery. Why was I crying over this asshole? It seemed absurd. And then, it came to me. I EARNED these tears. Why am I upset over this betrayal when he’s clearly moved on to some other, I’m sorry to say, foolish girl? Because I’m pathetic? No. Because I was LOYAL. Because instead of slowly withdrawing from my relationship without letting him know about it, I was IN it. I was there, I was committed. I was honest. So, yes. It sucks that I’m still getting over the person who so easily discarded me and then offered nothing more than, “I’m putting my life back together; I hope you can do the same.” It sucks more than I want it to. It hurts more than I want it to. But all this proves, is that I’m brave enough and self-aware enough to laugh when I’m happy, and to say when I’m not. Before I’m so over the relationship that I feel ready to jump into another one a week and a half later. I’m emotionally mature enough to own my pain and recognize that diving into another committed relationship less than two weeks later is probably not the healthiest way to recover from heartache. I’ll serve my time, because my heartache was well-earned. So I’ll cry my tears, and I’ll call Gwen every few days when I relapse. And then, I’ll move on knowing that my deportment hasn’t left half of my friends feeling ashamed of the person I’ve become.

Melissa, on her poor attendance record:

Mon, 26 May 2008 17:48:40 -0400

“I could never make it to my monday wednesday 10 am class because I didn’t like the metro transfer that it required.”

survival skills. uncheck.

Mon, 26 May 2008 17:34:00 -0400

Some random person just “approached” me on skype. with a digital flower. how romantic. rather than shying away from the internet predator, I became enthusiastic once I discovered that unidentifiedgenderpotentialpedophile spoke arabic, german, english, and french! So if I suddenly stop responding to emails, and you haven’t noted any morose blog postings, send for help.

you said you hate my suffering and you understood and you’d take care of me. you’d...

Mon, 26 May 2008 11:52:52 -0400

you said you hate my suffering and you understood and you’d take care of me. you’d always be there. well where are you now… ?

purging.

Mon, 26 May 2008 11:52:29 -0400

just threw out the skunk stuffed animal Spencer gave me (how appropriate…) with the rest of the trash. His sweats and boxers will follow shortly, once I dig them up out of the storage closet. Definitely keeping the scarf and shoes, though. I do love me some orange. I’d tell him to get rid of the clothes I got him, but then he’d have to go back to dressing like a bum. Not even I am that cruel. Camille will, of course, want to be seen with him in public. Besides, just like I leave the bathroom cleaner than when I found it, it’s nice to know I’ve left that shit, if not better, certainly better dressed. So much for being civil. It’s clear, he doesn’t deserve it. He can buy new underwear, I’m not wasting the postage, or the luggage space.

as requested by lenathatdemandingwhore

Sun, 25 May 2008 22:43:24 -0400

hahaha what would I say? My heart is broken. I hate most of the people I know at Harvard. it’s hard to paint your fingernails when your hands are shaking?

instead I chose vodka. and chaka khan

Sun, 25 May 2008 13:50:52 -0400

well actually, I chose cigarettes and the dixie chicks, but I feel that the sentiment is there. not following? Does, “I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect…” help? No? WORK ON YOUR POP CULTURE SKILLS.

being the generous person I am, I shared the fruits of my pain with the world. by which I mean I opened floor to ceiling windows so I could smoke and sing to the world. much to my surprise, rather than irritate ze Germans, this seemed to please them. two men gave me the thumbs up and stayed to listen to three songs (creepy) and one young blonde woman told me I was “total toll” and sat down on the curb to listen to my heart-wrenching rendition of don’t play that song/YOU LIED (charming and gratifying).

Then Tara arrived, but more importantly, I ran out of cigarettes. So it was time to move on. Knocked on Martina’s door (Martina = my elusive and as it turns out really amusing flatmate with whom I now party) to get the show on the road and made our way to Villa. Where I consumed a white russian, mojito, and piña colada in alarmingly rapid succession. We drifted to Tangente, but were immediately repelled by the techno music and, moreover, the people who like to dance to techno music. Moved on to Mel’s where shockingly NO ONE WAS AROUND. The dance floor was completely empty. Cheap beer, though, so Martina indulged. She’s…fond of that. At this point it was time to get down to serious business. No more kiddy stuff. We were going to have to pay a cover. Tara was tired and doesn’t live in the altstadt so she said her goodbyes while the Europa Haus III ladies made our way to Cave /kaf/. They played American Pie and reggae and other absurd things, yet somehow we kept dancing and drinking beer and smoking until 5 am…A 36-year old American soldier surgically attached myself to his side despite the very good impression I was giving off of only being able to speak German. I finally gave in and admitted to being from Boston. I was feeling charitable. Until. He took it upon himself to stroke the scars on my thighs and ask (in a deeply concerned voice, of COURSE) how I had gotten them. “Ich hab’ mich geschnitten.” What? “I cut myself.” Oh. ..

Surprisingly, this did not scare him off. I finally just told him I was too young for him, though really I would be fine with the age. But what the fuck do you do with some guy you meet at a bar at 4 am? Exactly. No thanks. Also, why go to Germany to pursue American men? The real problem was probably that I was still traumatized from last weekend’s confrontation with three very very drunk soldiers who informed me and my friends that he and HIS friends had been fighting in Iraq so that us stupid democrats could sleep safely in our beds at night. It started by him asking us our age. When we replied that we were 21, he asked us if we were sure….I said something that could have been construed as rude but that I prefer to think of as sophisticated and flippant. Offended by my tone or obvious lack of interest, he responded by saying that he was just trying to protect our rights. And so it went from there. I really don’t think I walked into that one. But perhaps in retrospect I should have seen it coming. Those haircuts are rather distinctive. But they were talking to a German! And that coward didn’t say a word against them. Though, really. What are the chances that a German approves of American foreign policy of the last 8 years?

Anyway. We finally left as the place was closing. I was exhausted, anticipating a hangover, and having been amazed by my ability to walk a straight line, silently attempting to repeat the alphabet backwards. Just as I was about to express my exhaustion, Martina piped up and said, I’m not tired at all! Want to have a beer or some wine when we get back?

…

Martina. You know that sound you’re hearing right now? Those are birds chirping. And see how the sky is changing color? THE FUCKING SUN IS RISING.

We had wine. And more cigarettes. She asked me how I was doing about the most recent twist of the knife and then recounted a story of a friend who called her from thailand with the news that her boyfriend had given her herpes and HPV. I conceded (reluctantly) that it could be worse. Spencer fucked me, but at least he didn’t leave any diseases behind. When Martina suggested we now move on to beer I had to put my foot down. I wasn’t wasted so much as dehydrated and vaguely nauseated by the smell of cigarette smoke all over me. Of course, having bid my farewells, I did nothing to remedy either of these problems, neither drinking water (instead stupidly chose orange fanta?), nor taking a shower (tooooo farrrr).

I did, however, call my mom and gwen to assure them that I hadn’t done anything foolish, that I’d enjoyed myself, and that I would demonstrate better taste in men in the future. Then I chatted with Mandy, or rather, I blubbered incoherently insofar as one can blubber incoherently via instant message, and she gave comfort and support and all of those things that a friend should give. So did Lena, bless her, who hid out in the basement of a restaurant among dust heaps and boxes in order to video chat with me and make sure I was doing ok. It’s nice to know that some people understand the importance of knowing your friends are on your side.

so the last bomb dropped

Sat, 24 May 2008 18:18:56 -0400

or at least it better have. though I think I may have thought that before… my solution? dancing and white russians! tara arrives in an hour. time for a quick shower, a fabulous dress, and some bright red lipstick. peter randomly messaged me a few minutes ago to ask if there was something going on he could join. I said nope. Tonight is girls’ night.

Additionally, I went grocery shopping today AND finally got my laundry after letting it sit for two days. A nasty little habit I got into at Harvard that I really need to grow out of. These Germans are shifty characters and I wouldn’t want my knickers disappearing into some perv’s collection.

lena arrives soon and has promised to a) cook for me and b) tame the wild beast (my hair, which against all odds, seems to have REJECTED the chemical straightener I put in it before leaving for Germany. it’s tighter than ever and a huge pain in my ass) Checked London for my hair products. Unsuccessful. It seems I’ll need to continue to have friends import it from the Americas for me. Like tobacco. Or cotton.

My Dad, true to form, is coping with my depression the way he copes with everything. RESEARCH! Apparently I will soon be receiving a copy of the latest PBS special on clinical depression. I investigated online and you can have it gift-wrapped! How thoughtful. Gives it such a nice touch. Regardless, Kudos to Dad for making a productive effort!

Saschathatdeviousbastard is still on the loose. Evading my flour trails with ease. All I’ve found of him is his shedding. Time to move on to pinky mice traps.

And since I know that pretty much no one else will have the spine to say anything to him. Spencer: who ARE you? is Liane as disappointed in you as I am?