Islamic Turkish German Machine Workers Kiss Like Crap

Alicante, Andalucia, Spain.
My glasses- in the Mediteranian. New pair seven on Tuesday. Haters will be disappointed to note they're cuter than my last pair. Slightly disoriented and pissed off without them, but enjoying everything, including this illustrated spanish Hound of the Baskervilles and El Hobbit. Reading Spanish is SO much eassier than speaking it.

So, Molly and I picked up by aformentioned swain and Very Spanish Companion. Swain speaks like, no English, and my German and Spanish are unmentionably bad. Fine stuff, stroll on la playa, isn't the Mediteranian pretty, saunter down the esplenade, dinner in Turkish restraunt, return to The Little Blahblah so Ahmet can have a Not Drink. Try and get a white russian in the south of Spain, I fucking dare you.

Alright, so the casual makeout part of the evening is approaching, and he's cute, I'm fine. But then he's all "Princess" and "stong woman" and I blush, and wonder if that would have sounded half assed in English. Very complementary, which I can't really listen to with any degree of attention. Everyone sings in Spain. So awkward, walking down the street is like being trapped in a gritty Shakira music video. Singing is no longer part of courtship for good reasons. And "I think I could have an serious relationship with you." Oh, how nice for you. He was a metal worker, she was completley uninterested, a classic story of love not ever really found and apathy totally untranscended. Dude. We're talking with the aid of my purse dictionary and I'm leaving for Sevilla Tuesday night. Whatever. The making out begins.

I don't really know what steryotype to chalk this one up to, having never previously been in the arms of an islamic Turkish German member of the proletariate. I'd LOVE to know if you have any conclusions drawn for research to share. Whatever I choose to lump this under, they are descent with the body stuff, neck, hands, legs, but awful with the actual kissing. Like a rabid facial hair monster rubbing against my face until the whole thing cracks and peels clean off. "I don't think I'm wearing enough deodorant," I think, somewhat annoyed, followed by "Why did I forget my good lipstick? Ah well." I try to focus on the better things, the actual stuff he seems decent at, but it's hard to appreciate good technique while the Stubbly Facial Hair Badger from Beyond the Continent is humping the general region of your mouth. And I do mean region. Eugh, saliva. "Maybe it's a cultural difference!" I think brightly. "You know, you should experience this and learn something!" "Learn the Way of the Badger?" I counter. "'Cause I don't think I need to know the Way of the Badger." The music switched from The Cure to Sting's "Don't Stand so Close to Me."

I don't make out with people I met a few hours ago sober in a VERY public part of the bar unless its fucking enjoyable.

I made sure Molly had a room key and I was outie. I thought he might cry! I was bewildered, and a little guilty, but when a girl wants to go home she goes, godammit. And then he like, followed me down the street. When your hair is blue, it's hard to inconspicuously loos yourself in a crowd, unless that crowd is the blueman group. I glanced over at the birghtly clad civil cervice engineers, aka janitors that man the street for hours at night, keeping the vast pedestrian malls walkable. I sort of wished they were the Dublin Guarda, those guys will back you in a fight, these just looked innocuous. I politely but firmly explained in three languages that I was walking home now, alone, and felt not a lot of further need to explain myself. It's hard to reference the tried and true "no chemistry" argument in languages you don't speak. Jesus, dude, take a hint. Don't actually try to confront the one night stand girl who stops after the obligatory casual makeout. I want to get picked up by a Brit, they wouldn't freak out. Molly's just going to be mad I skipped out on the fumbling. Bah. Sick and tired of these motherfuckin' snakes on a motherfuckin' plane.


P.S. When's a fucking WOMAN going to try and pick me up? Jesus, equal opportunity ho here!

Islamic Turkish German Machine Workers Kiss Like Crap

Alicante, Andalucia, Spain.
My glasses- in the Mediteranian. New pair seven on Tuesday. Haters will be disappointed to note they're cuter than my last pair. Slightly disoriented and pissed off without them, but enjoying everything, including this illustrated spanish Hound of the Baskervilles and El Hobbit. Reading Spanish is SO much eassier than speaking it.

So, Molly and I picked up by aformentioned swain and Very Spanish Companion. Swain speaks like, no English, and my German and Spanish are unmentionably bad. Fine stuff, stroll on la playa, isn't the Mediteranian pretty, saunter down the esplenade, dinner in Turkish restraunt, return to The Little Blahblah so Ahmet can have a Not Drink. Try and get a white russian in the south of Spain, I fucking dare you.

Alright, so the casual makeout part of the evening is approaching, and he's cute, I'm fine. But then he's all "Princess" and "stong woman" and I blush, and wonder if that would have sounded half assed in English. Very complementary, which I can't really listen to with any degree of attention. Everyone sings in Spain. So awkward, walking down the street is like being trapped in a gritty Shakira music video. Singing is no longer part of courtship for good reasons. And "I think I could have an serious relationship with you." Oh, how nice for you. He was a metal worker, she was completley uninterested, a classic story of love not ever really found and apathy totally untranscended. Dude. We're talking with the aid of my purse dictionary and I'm leaving for Sevilla Tuesday night. Whatever. The making out begins.

I don't really know what steryotype to chalk this one up to, having never previously been in the arms of an islamic Turkish German member of the proletariate. I'd LOVE to know if you have any conclusions drawn for research to share. Whatever I choose to lump this under, they are descent with the body stuff, neck, hands, legs, but awful with the actual kissing. Like a rabid facial hair monster rubbing against my face until the whole thing cracks and peels clean off. "I don't think I'm wearing enough deodorant," I think, somewhat annoyed, followed by "Why did I forget my good lipstick? Ah well." I try to focus on the better things, the actual stuff he seems decent at, but it's hard to appreciate good technique while the Stubbly Facial Hair Badger from Beyond the Continent is humping the general region of your mouth. And I do mean region. Eugh, saliva. "Maybe it's a cultural difference!" I think brightly. "You know, you should experience this and learn something!" "Learn the Way of the Badger?" I counter. "'Cause I don't think I need to know the Way of the Badger." The music switched from The Cure to Sting's "Don't Stand so Close to Me."

I don't make out with people I met a few hours ago sober in a VERY public part of the bar unless its fucking enjoyable.

I made sure Molly had a room key and I was outie. I thought he might cry! I was bewildered, and a little guilty, but when a girl wants to go home she goes, godammit. And then he like, followed me down the street. When your hair is blue, it's hard to inconspicuously loos yourself in a crowd, unless that crowd is the blueman group. I glanced over at the birghtly clad civil cervice engineers, aka janitors that man the street for hours at night, keeping the vast pedestrian malls walkable. I sort of wished they were the Dublin Guarda, those guys will back you in a fight, these just looked innocuous. I politely but firmly explained in three languages that I was walking home now, alone, and felt not a lot of further need to explain myself. It's hard to reference the tried and true "no chemistry" argument in languages you don't speak. Jesus, dude, take a hint. Don't actually try to confront the one night stand girl who stops after the obligatory casual makeout. I want to get picked up by a Brit, they wouldn't freak out. Molly's just going to be mad I skipped out on the fumbling. Bah. Sick and tired of these motherfuckin' snakes on a motherfuckin' plane.


P.S. When's a fucking WOMAN going to try and pick me up? Jesus, equal opportunity ho here!

(no subject)

My favorite uncle, Will, and I have talked and it looks like I may be reading history second semester next year at one of the following colleges:

York
Kings
Queen Mary
Essex
Edinborough
Glasgow

I didn't know Bill had been keeping abrest of how I'd been doing in school. Thanks ever so, grandma. I really do love it when all my relatives can snark at my German performance, that's just excellent. Edinborough and Queen Mary are somewhat stricter on the GPA, requiring a 3.3 minimum, but Will thinks perhaps it might satisfy them if my major GPA is good, even if the overall is somewhat dodgy. Did you know ALL your federal student aid by law transfered to English universities? And with state subsidised education, it's not all that expensive. I'm sort of trying to sway anyone who might be interested, I'd adore some company in the land of macks and brellys. I promise you a helping of my uncle's thoroughly good pasta putanesca and my own undying lubb.

Not to belabour the obvious, but I love England. Not just my family over there, though Bill and I had an excellent "Why does Angel Claire suck so hard?" session and my fashion design cousin Emily is awesome and, via her brother, I have a very cute new little second cousin who is like one small ball of person. Not even because they're the only nation on the planet that plys me with properly made tea with milk, sugar and lemon almost without me having to ask for some. And though I do love the British Museum and the comic book store outside (I LOVE YOU WOAH! WOAH! COMICS!), its not that either.

There's some kind of gestault effect that just leaves me feeling very deliberate, measured and pleased with myself and the people around me. I like the air, and how well I sleep there, how few allergies I have, the way the tube works, the way Victoria Station looks. I like listening to bitching about what the mayor's doing (mostly my uncle's-- "He like newts." "Newts?" "Yes, and if that isn't a sign of insanity." The new Eye on London is a lot like the bubble from The Prisoner, we agree). Driving to Stansted airport the fog rose up off the Essex marshes, and it was opaquely beautiful, twining around the motorway until you understood the Sh. plays where people end up lost and wandering here. Impossible to see ten feet in front of you, but incomparably lovely when the motorway crests a hill and you can look down and see it happening. England has excellent art and architecture, but it couples these with a firmer foundation of natural loveliness than any country I have been to.

I am REALLY looking forward to history in a university that knows when the fucking Battle of Bosworth was.

(no subject)

My favorite uncle, Will, and I have talked and it looks like I may be reading history second semester next year at one of the following colleges:

York
Kings
Queen Mary
Essex
Edinborough
Glasgow

I didn't know Bill had been keeping abrest of how I'd been doing in school. Thanks ever so, grandma. I really do love it when all my relatives can snark at my German performance, that's just excellent. Edinborough and Queen Mary are somewhat stricter on the GPA, requiring a 3.3 minimum, but Will thinks perhaps it might satisfy them if my major GPA is good, even if the overall is somewhat dodgy. Did you know ALL your federal student aid by law transfered to English universities? And with state subsidised education, it's not all that expensive. I'm sort of trying to sway anyone who might be interested, I'd adore some company in the land of macks and brellys. I promise you a helping of my uncle's thoroughly good pasta putanesca and my own undying lubb.

Not to belabour the obvious, but I love England. Not just my family over there, though Bill and I had an excellent "Why does Angel Claire suck so hard?" session and my fashion design cousin Emily is awesome and, via her brother, I have a very cute new little second cousin who is like one small ball of person. Not even because they're the only nation on the planet that plys me with properly made tea with milk, sugar and lemon almost without me having to ask for some. And though I do love the British Museum and the comic book store outside (I LOVE YOU WOAH! WOAH! COMICS!), its not that either.

There's some kind of gestault effect that just leaves me feeling very deliberate, measured and pleased with myself and the people around me. I like the air, and how well I sleep there, how few allergies I have, the way the tube works, the way Victoria Station looks. I like listening to bitching about what the mayor's doing (mostly my uncle's-- "He like newts." "Newts?" "Yes, and if that isn't a sign of insanity." The new Eye on London is a lot like the bubble from The Prisoner, we agree). Driving to Stansted airport the fog rose up off the Essex marshes, and it was opaquely beautiful, twining around the motorway until you understood the Sh. plays where people end up lost and wandering here. Impossible to see ten feet in front of you, but incomparably lovely when the motorway crests a hill and you can look down and see it happening. England has excellent art and architecture, but it couples these with a firmer foundation of natural loveliness than any country I have been to.

I am REALLY looking forward to history in a university that knows when the fucking Battle of Bosworth was.