Instantly gramful, my friends

That odd moment when you realize that you've had more conversations with your Instagram friends in a day than you have had with your real life friends in two weeks.

I suppose Instagram is where extreme talents and interests unite.

I find myself thinking, "Gosh, if I ever went to Vancouver I'd want to hang out with you."

I also find myself slightly offended if ever my usual followers don't like any of my photos for days -- I suppose that we all go on vacation -- but my kindred-spirited friends mustn't disappear for too long! I start to worry!

I'd like to know the success rate of Instagram engagements.

Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, or simply medical expenses stress-free

I have been debating for quite some time now (after a few life adjustments and changes) to which political party I offered support, and it wasn't until I was attempting to fall asleep one night that a revelation of my favors developed.

You see, I've got a slight heart condition that I believe to be worsening; however, I quickly deny my belief upon realization that I simply can't afford the medical bill to cover further studies of my ailment. Sure, my insurance will cover a good bit, and there's also a good bit I'd still have to offer up. A good bit my slightly above minimum wage salary and no additional expenses whatsoever lifestyle can afford.

You see, I just can't afford my curiosity.

I've experienced the private sector of socialized healthcare while studying in Argentina, and I'd have to say that while I initially paid a lump sum, every medical expense thereafter was accounted for, and hope could be found, no matter how serious the problem or procedure.


I will recall this thought upon the next elections.

For now, I am still not for Partido "K."

Love is in this cold front, somewhere

Tis the season to be engaged, graduated, and newly-married! As I genuinely congratulate and am happy for my friends and Facebook acquaintances, COME ON!!

I still have high-school acne, yet alone I can't even begin to be hopeful in finding my mate before my child-bearing days are over!

As I hide my hideous face in my unemployed hole, grateful that not a soul in my city has bothered to request my presence.

My daily activities include rabbit-chasing on Wikipedia with the original search as an 11th century French Chief of State.

I might venture to the museum to stare at the same painting for an hour at a time.

So, congratulations in one big greeting card!

I'll be on Pinterest re-pinning everything you all have already checked off your lists of things to do for this year: wear flannel, find a decent man, celebrate Thanksgiving, get engaged, graduate from college, get married, and celebrate Christmas.

Happy New Years, y'all. I'm ready.

Thanks for the fish

I would like to express my gratitude for all of the gifts I have been gifted over the years. 

Seriously, I have not thrown a thing away! Call me a pack rat or a hoarder, your gift has gone to no waste, my friends. 

I have never bought a single scarf or necklace or pair of earrings for myself -- except for the few souvenirs I picked up for myself in Argentina, and now I am the owner of 17 scarves and a hefty and heavy box of jewelry. 

Even though I have enough jewelry, I can never have too much, so don't hold back if you all forgot my 21st birthday this year besides three family friends or this upcoming Christmas.

So yes, I have a lot, and yes I sound completely materialistic right now, but it is because of you all anyways. I've tried to be a minimalist, but I can never be rude and turn down a gift. 

I should really just come out and tell people what I would like instead of leaving my sense of fashion up to the public, but what I really want is the usual jar of Kalamata Olives and a few odd Ayn Rand and Virginia Woolf books from Half Price that I've had my eye on since last week. Sorry my life is so simple to me. 

Thanks for giving this hopelessly fashion less gal some fashion sense. 

Also, I have kept every card that has ever been given to me -- all of the cards that are more than a pre-printed Hallmark verse with a mere signature at the bottom. Seriously, your kind words go farther than your autograph. 

And if you can manage to send me words without a gift, then bless you - you've discovered my soul. 

God Save the Queen

My mom yelled "Katie, Katieeeeee" from the end of the house. 

I lept from my warm, sunny reading repose and ran to the TV room where she was on the phone and holding the TV remote in the other hand. 

I honestly thought that The Queen had died. Why else would my mom be on the phone to her British friend while trying to get the TV to work? 

And then I realized that she wanted me to record House. 

The Queen is alive, have no fear, peasants. 

Hogar is whenever I'm with you... Al, AR

I am home. I am also in my house. The Spanish language has two words for home/house. Casa being the word for the structure itself, and hogar being the word for the closeness one would associate with the structure or even a place or country. 

I am currently in my casa, and I am also in my hogar with my loving family. 

California has bears!

"Oh, I'd hate to live up north! And I'd hate to live in California!" Exclaims my mom. 

Why? 

"Because of the bears! California has bears!"

Stranded

So you know those people who are stranded in the DFW airport in Texas. Yes, that's me right now. Except I'm not stranded in that I can't get a flight out - it's more like we can't drive anywhere. 

Shiver shiver with my torn tango sheet music. Dem TSA. 

Uses of Latin: airport bathroom encounters

My flight had been rerouted and canceled, again. I ran into the old woman in the bathroom, the lady who had been on my previous flight, and she exclaimed, "God willing we get through to Dallas!" with which I reponded "Yes, Deo Volente indeed!" 

A mother and her teenage daughter from Pinterest summer world gave my disheveled traveler appearance a look of disapproval as they skipped washing their hands to fix their hair. 

I again nodded a smile to the elderly woman and proceeded to wash my hands for an extra five seconds to rub it in -- the soap I mean, of course. 

Raspberry Thief

You may call me the Raspberry Thief, every morning before breakfast I eat

On my fingertips, you must seek, 

red-handed evidence that it is indeed, me.

Try to stop me if you can, 

You'll have to lick my fingertips first 

before I carry out my scrumptious plan.  

But indulge me if you want, for I am still the Raspberry Thief! 

Feo-struck

I was walking down a quaint street in Santiago, Chile, perusing the open-air book fair, and I lingered for just a moment too long to find myself struck in the face by two metal poles that were holding up the makeshift tent. I was stunned. And three men rushed over to remove the tent from my face. I put my sun glasses back on my face and walked away. A man at one of the book stalls asked me if my face was alright as I was passing by. I replied in Spanish, "It's ugly, but I'm okay." He was quite confused by my reply, not realizing that he had intruded my extentializing thoughts. I gave a genuine smile in appreciation for his concern, and then I scampered off in fear of any more commotion that could evoke a panic of tears. 

Goodbye, open-aired book fair. 

So, I do speak Castellano

I was speaking to a few Chileans in the best hostel in Santiago, Chile and was told that I had an accent -- "an American accent?" I asked. No, an Argentine. I proceeded to say that I had been studying there for the past four months, and they said "hence, the accent."

Not like I can understand half of the Chileans. Take me back to Argentina where you can understand Castellano. 

And yes, our 20 hour bus ride from Buenos Aires, Argentina to Santiago, Chile only took 22 hours. 

Ser Porteña

Walking down the street named "Bolivar" in Buenos Aires, peering into open doors while being hustled along the crowd down the bustling street of businessmen in dark summer suits, students with large architecture portfolios bound by weathered leather straps, and old women sipping on grandfather's musty pipe while sneaking glances at children bouncing glass marbles on the cool, tiled floors, I comfortably ease into the quotidian porteño rhythm. Buenos Aires, I am fully here and fully yours. 

So long, and thanks for all the fish

I suck at goodbyes. They always catch me in a panic. I always panic. I could be having a lovely last meal with my friends, and then we find out that the last colectivo for the night leaves in two minutes -- so we throw down the money, hug quickly and ardently, and then part. 

It isn't until I've gathered my bearings in the bus that I realize that I just said goodbye -- forever (maybe not forever, but a few years could feel like it). 

Goodbyes don't have to be a grandiose show, but I usually always lack a certain kind of closure - perhaps that's what can keep the fire buring, but it is still like unfinished business, as in we could have hugged just one more time, or I could have appreciated your essence for five more minutes. 

But it isn't the end that ever counts  -- it's what's in between, the meat of the relationships. 

I'm only ever down on goodbyes because I think some relationships deserve a final hurrah. Will we remember the hurrah? Maybe not, but our subconscious can peacefully rest with the fact that we've honored the relationship and all of the memories at the core. 

I always say All's well that ends well, but that's not entirely true -- for instance, stopping the story at a bad moment, a hiccup in the relationship, a trying time - then it wouldn't be well, and the one terrible ending would be lording over every pure moment anterior. Either we can evaluate by looking back at the entire story, or we can evaluate the present and know that it is good. 

I almost think goodbyes are preposterous in trying to finalize or make sense of anything because the end doesn't even matter. So, sorry we never had a proper goodbye (whatever that is). I really just want to hug you one more time and tell you how much you mean to me. Bye for now, sweet cheeks. 

My heart might be left in Mendoza...

I have never consulted WebMD or Askadoctor so many times before my visit to Argentina. 

The wine and meat are excellent, but my sitting heartrate and heart pain just might be too high for my delicate body's comfort. 

But hey, I can ask for a doctor and explain my symptoms in perfect Spanish. Como se dice "looming heart attack in Mendoza." 

The cultural fair at the local park was great, even though they ran out of Inca Cola.... 

And now it's time to not worry - thank goodness for student health insurance! 

The Hostel Phenomenon

I have lodged in quite a handful of hostels over my years of traveling, and every time upon experience I am exhilarated by this confronting sense of a common ambition and understanding of the traveling life these "backpackers," "traveling comrades," and "vagabonds" seem to possess. 

I find myself confounded by my own story of "what I happen to be doing here," and I ponder these common themes in both the stories that I share with others around the twenty-seated communal dining table and the activity of washing the raspberry marmalade-crusted breakfast dishes with the early morning creatures at the kitchen sink. 

These others and fellow traveling comrades could also very well be considered strangers, but given the fact that we are sharing a hostel, we are obviously immediately friends (maybe not completely trustworthy), and you admire them just the same for the happening presence you share. 

I immediately set about blogging about this "I am a traveler" feeling, and I was confounded by my own lack of descriptive words and thorough explanation of what these sentiments are ought. 

I do find myself assuming an international identity whenever I discover that the Australian couple happen to live down the road from my grandmother's house in Sydney, or the lone Texan has visited my hometown for every one of his summers. I find my accent slipping into a familiar 'Strain slang, empowering a natural attraction to an assumed similar upbringing. 

The characters who pass through these red-painted hostel walls, swapping all sorts of paperback novels, hiking advice, and personal accounts of various life-changing experiences won't necessarily be remembered when my stay at the hostel comes to a sweetly sorrowful goodbye, but in a new-age sounding sentiment my own travel will have been exponentially enhanced, and it will have become my own. 

My Jansport school backpack shamefully pales in comparison to the typical backpacker's 70-lbs yellow duffle, but nevertheless it carries my own backpacking story and limits the unnecessary baggage I could have probably managed to shove into it. 

23:50

We are about to get on a bus that will take us to Bariloche, Patagonia, Argentina. 

Duration of bus ride: 23 hours and 50 minutes 

Oh South America, how your expanse charms me! 

Avena mi vida!!

Oatmeal for breakfast. 

This isn't just your average oatmeal. I think the two heaping spoonfuls of Dulce de Leche make it the breakfast of the Latin American gods. 

To be stood up, for the third time

I have been stood up twice in the past three days for a social engagement and work. Waiting time: 1.5-2.5hs.

Hashtag: Latin America

Hopelessly devoted...

Argentines: on exercise and old men

A typical Argentine scene:

old men lacing up their tennis shoes before they jog around the local park in their jeans in the early morning. 

mosquitos

- the distant sound of women wailing and children screaming

Ye fearing mortal!

"You are living as if destined to live for ever; your own frailty never occurs to you; you don't notice how much time has already passed, but squander it as though you has a full and overflowing supply - though all the while that very day which you are devotion g to some key or something may be your last. 

You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire."

On the Shortness of Life

- Seneca

It's refreshing to be back in the hands of Seneca. 

The End

While I was trying to express some philosophical dilemma and explore an idea, my friend left me with more to think about as my expression was immediately shot down without any interest in what I was trying to say before I could even get through the first part of my always-loaded question or remark by responding with "it's not even a philosophical thing; it's merely personal preference."

Now that's my dilemma, because I don't have a premeditated personal preference, for me it's a "when it comes to it what do I prefer or detest" kind of thing. 

Which is why I have many loaded questions. Because the result has no definition or significance in my mind without the process anterior. Or justification.

I was beaten by my own game. 

Take it or leave it but at least think about it. What more is there to say? I resign. This is my last blog; my thoughts will remain in my head. I will no longer get a high off of playing with words and then hitting publish through my sophomore year spirit. 

So long, faithful audience. You may now get to know me by other means, me incarnate. 

For those of you who have gotten to know me in the flesh, perhaps you can help my dilemma. Perhaps you can now give me existence as I forever disappear into my own thoughts. 

I have attained the last third of my blog's mantra. And so I leave you, with nothing to think about. Because obviously everyone else has already been thinking, and I am lost. I mean, aren't people supposed to find themselves on these kinds of journeys? 

I've lost my essence. I don't mind about aura, because I never had any. But my essence, it has blown away. 

Maybe it is my unkind and quiet desire to disappear for awhile. Maybe it is a conversation I had earlier, or brush of an arm a year ago. Maybe it was the song I heard on the bus coming "home" tonight. 

As a circle of mate dust disappears from the hand with parted lips and cool air, so do I. 

So long, and thanks for all the fish. 

Falling for Fall

I miss my flannel! I miss my thrift stores. I miss making Turkish coffee for breakfast. I miss my mum's Spice Tea and coconut, cranberry, chocolate chip pumpkin muffins. I miss the beautiful leaves that rhythmically crunch underneath your feet as you meticulously weave your path up and around mossy tree roots and cold rocks. 

I miss the morning mist glowing as the sun rises just after the birds have beckoned the new day. 

I miss you, Alabamian Fall

Pollo time

I had chicken for the first time in three months. I had almost forgotten what was the universal taste of chicken.

I wonder, if I had tofu....

Animal fat = my future love handles

Everyone went out back to go look at the people fixing the pool, and I decided that I was hungry, so I walked up the hill to my favorite panaderia and was on a mission to buy criollos de Manteca, and on a whim I ended up getting the other kind which is made with animal fat. The animal fat criollos just looked more appealing at the time. 

I also surprised the ladies because I am always so insistent on butter being healthier than the animal fat. 

I came back and ate my fattening bread spoils before anyone even realized that I had left. 

Side note: 10 criollos cost me $3.00pesos. That makes it about $0.38USD. 

I've had about 35-40 criollos in the past 3 days. Someone stop me before I become bacon drippings. 

Dulce everything.

I have had dulce de Leche with almost everything I have eaten today.

This first lot began with the dulce de Leche liquer that I put in my coffee, followed by a nice bowl of oatmeal with dulce de Leche. Then I had a banana with dulce de Leche. I spooned many a serving into my mouth via my finger. And then I had criollos with dulce de Leche.

The only thing I did not have with dulce de Leche was the Artichoke I ate for lunch. Literally, we each ate a boiled artichoke by peeling away the layers and dipping them into a mix of salt, oil, and vinegar. 

And now I feel terribly sick. I need some olives, stat. 

Social, social, not social

I swear I'm not anti-social. I just don't want to end up walking three miles in the dark and waiting two hours for the bus in the middle of the night in Córdoba. Criollo time. 

And if anyone wants to lend me their Hulu or Netflix password...

Criollos de Manteca.

I just bought 200 gramos de criollos de manteca. And then I proceeded to sit in my bed and eat them while drinking mate with orange juice and hot water. Goethe and I might be in love with the bread of Latin America. 

What are you all doing this Thursday afternoon? 

Forced productivity

Okay, not going to lie, I've been standing outside of my internship office for two hours now, and they told me to wait... As in I have to leave in 45 minutes now to take my bus. 

My productivity level always increases when I am forced to wait. As in, I finished my paper, read some Goethe in Spanish, ate my lunch (actually got lunch today - leftover pasta that I didn't finish for dinner), read some Guaman Poma "First Chronical and Good Government," and some "Civilization and Barbarism" by Sarmiento in Spanish. I also tried not to pass out from the heat. 

And now my back is hurting.

Also, congratulations for reading my glorified Facebook post. 

Argentine lines

I have moments when I feel very argentine. These moments usually occur whenever I am waiting for a long time for any service or anybody. 

I usually only get frustrated whenever I miss my transportation. 

Right now, I'm just enjoying studying people find the right office while I wait outside of mine. 

I am also happily stealing someone's wifi whose password happens to be the anticipated 0123456789.

Horario

My concept of time is completely scewed living in Argentina. As I take a two to three hour nap in the evening, wake up for my dinner at 10:30pm, and then go to bed around 1:30am. 

If it is a Thursday through Sunday night, however, I might find myself sleeping for four hours in the evenings and then staying up until 5am, sleeping until 10am, and then taking another nap in the afternoon for my repeat of a messed up schedule.

The Samford Caf opens at 5. 

You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see

I am a concerned by the fact that I've almost sleep walked three nights in a row. Either that or I've at least woken up completely confused by my whereabouts.

The first time I thought I was at my house in the US. The second, I thought I was in a cave in the countryside of Argentina. The third, I thought I was in my dorm room at my university in the States. 

Let me just tell you, the cave instance worries me for two reasons. 1. I actually thought I was in a cave. 2. I went back to bed accepting the fact that I was sleeping in a cave. 

That's when I woke up in the morning and feared that I had completely lost it. 

As in, what is my subconscious really trying to sort out? Or suggesting? 

All I know is that the aftermath resulted in my Yerba Mate being spilled on the ground because in my attempts to get up and look out the cave window I must have knocked the bag over. 

Good thing I have to practically climb over the cars and use my skeleton key to get out of the house - or else I would legitimately be concerned about wandering the streets of Barrio Urca, Argentina.  

Romantic street scene with rain

You know those movie scenes when the person is standing on the side of the street trying to cross and a car splashes them with water as it drives past. 

Yes, that happens in real life. After I had walked down the road from the school to the bus stop in the unrelenting downpour without my umbrella or raincoat, I proceeded to wait for my damned N5 bus for a few minutes, and while I tried to dodge the stares of the scummy Latin American men, a motorcycle tore past a car on my side, drowning my starving, cold, and wet body with filthy Córdoba street water. I sobbed. That was the only thing I could do. Sob. 

And then I got over it and went back to wondering what we were going to have for dinner at 11pm, hopelessly hoping that there would be leftovers for tomorrow's lunch that I will probably not get anyways. 

Here's to you, Argentina.

Good directions, no turnip greens

1. Two thoughts enter my head whenever someone asks me for directions: 1. I'm about to get robbed. 2. I am being asked directions. 

If the first, then I will surely die. If the second, then I either look like I know what I am doing, I appear to be a Cordobesa, or I am about to get robbed. And then when I do not end up getting robbed, my guard is not let down for future inquires, but rather, I feel as though I have made it past this invisible and unknown to others level of my speaking spanish objective that I have qualified as being able to speak Spanish and know the foreign city almost like a local upon "being asked directions." I get ten bonus points if I can tell them the shortcut to their destination. Let's face it, I'm still going to get robbed. 

Land of the carne and vino. False.

My endeavor to eat something besides an egg and bowl of plain white rice was foiled by the fact that this is Latin America, and sometimes all stores don't open holidays. Or just whenever they feel like it. 

I was able to, however, buy a piece of bread to add to my crouton-like bread collection, with which I will flavor with Dulce de leche liqueur because that is all I can find in this house to eat besides raw flank steak - which I'm hoping we will eat tonight. 

Should have bought my supplies yesterday - as in, I'm already paying people to feed me and yet I'm not getting fed and don't want to pay double. 

And as my attempts were massacred by multiple outside factors, I decided to give up, and go to bed. 

Can't even make coffee to go with my dulce de leche liquer because there is neither coffee nor milk. 

I'm starving in Latin America. I would go to the McDonald's and get an egg mcmuffin, but I don't feel like walking 30 minutes as I have already walked 1.5 hours across this city. 

Why is Latin America so difficult? I'm considering getting a boyfriend purely based on if he has a car or motorcycle and buys me food every day. 

I get cranky when I'm not fed. And those of you who know me -- I'm always eating and stealing 3 meals worth of food from the caf. 

Yes, I went by an outdoor patio restaurant and took the uneaten leftover sandwich from the plate as I walked past. 

I give up. I have no energy. I'm going to bed. Please let there not be white rice for dinner. Oh, studying abroad, how you are such an "experience." Oh, I want to be an adventurer and travel the world, and I'd rather have less possessions so I can see beautiful places! Words of wisdom: sell everything and buy protein bars. 

Happy Columbus Day!

Happy Columbus Day - just another holiday celebrated in Argentina. 

That makes this what, the 5th Monday we've had a school holiday in the past two months. 

Another excuse to speak Spanish all day, go drink mate in the park, merienda with more mate for a few hours in the afternoon, and disfruta the day with your Argentine friends. 

Un finde muy tranquilo

This past weekend I found myself thinking thoughts such as... 

Is smoking pot really allowed on buses? 

I should have worn my dreds and not washed my clothes. 

I am in the middle of nowhere Argentina, and I'm perfectly okay with that. 

Small towns thrive off of Pritty Limon and Fernet. 

You haven't experienced a cold shower until you take one not supported by hot water. That and the whole electricity is a candle in the middle of cloudy night with no moon really adds to the effect. 

I am sitting at a campfire in the middle of nowhere Argentina, listening to Dave Matthews Band. Can't get more stereotypical Argentine than that. 

I had rice for dinner, dessert, and I'm pretty sure we are going to have it again for breakfast. 

Do you want me to put the milk in the fridge? Oh, I see, you want me to run down and put it in the river. 

If I got injured out here, even my OSDE health insurance card wouldn't save me.  

Caprice empanadas. Okay cool.  

Just because no one ever saw the pretty flowers in the wilderness doesn't mean they don't exist. 

Goodnight, *blows out candle*

Sovereign quaint cafe

I am currently sitting in the best cafe there is in Argentina, sipping my huge cup of cafe con leche and eating a nice biscuit with jamón y queso. This is the first cafe that has actually won a spot in my heart with it's abundant portions and various promotions. 

And this quaint cafe of the gods is called McDonald's. 

The first time I've felt nourished by protein and a balance of ingredients.

I might become a regular, if coming for the past three days in a row hasn't already qualified me as so. 

Dulce de leche liqueur

Dulce de leche liqueur. My morning coffee improved tenfold. 

My argentine egg whites

My egg whites did not peak. I am legitimately upset. 

Baking a dessert just may be the most difficult thing to do whilst abroad. 

My story begins with "as I approached the dairy (lácteo) section," and ends with "my egg whites did not peak nor did my whipping cream whip." 

My story always begins with "as I approached the dairy section," and usually ends in some baking catastrophe, and somewhere in between I might have walked a few miles and taken three wrong buses. 

And wouldn't you like to know which dessert I was baking! Hint: includes Dulce de Leche Licor! 

Bus hazard

Had an existential crisis this morning on the bus. Worst place to existentialize while near an open door of a moving vehicle. 

Wifi

Wifi is far and few between functional down here in South America. 

It's all fine when it comes to a break from social media, but when it comes to coordinating where you are going to meet in the city later on in the day... 

It's not prisoner's dilemma, but it does take a lot of anticipation and hope that no matter what, you can correctly anticipate their plans. 

Hola, mi amor!

The bus driver greeted me with "Hola, mi amor!" 

I swooned. How attractive he was with his dark features, gaunt jaw line, sideburns, Italian sunglasses. Let's be real, he was probably an Italian model posing as the bus driver. 

Yes, I will only marry the man who says "will you pass me my pencil, mi amor?" 

Or "what did you say, mi amor?"

Or "your skin glows like the sunset, and your eyes beam like the moon when she has reached her fullness, mi amor!" 

Until we meet again, Señor mi amor. 

I want some MALK

I'm just going to run to the store real quick to get some milk = I literally ran down the street and bought some milk. 

Why did I need milk? Because I was going to make French toast. After my first attempt to make it without milk, making it a piece of bread with an egg fried to it, of course. 

And now I am a Goddess because argentines have never had it before. 

I was lucky that the student who lived here before me was from Canada and brought a nice supply of maple syrup. 

Call me, maybe if you want my answer to be "si"

I awakened to the sound of someone pounding on my door, bursting through the one-hinge door, shoving the telephone into my hand and walking out. 

"Hola?" I half-asleep notified the mystery in the other end of the line. 

I've only spoken on the phone in Spanish a few times, and this time was no different. They spoke, I asked them to repeat what they said, they repeat, and all hell breaks loose because they repeated it even faster, using different words, 

I probably always sign my soul away by responding with "ah!, que bueno, si, muchas gracias, Señor!" 

And in this case, that was all that needed to be said. 

And then I hardly remembered what had happened as I collapsed back onto my bed in slumber.

Study abroad = babies who are never touched.

A fellow friend of mine, a like-traveler, pursuer of awe, once told me that "happiness is only real when shared," and I would like to add "...and shared with those you can swaddle right in the middle of it all."  

So, I am content. 

And I am happy when I am content and am with you at the same time. 

That cute Cicero

I quoted Voltaire quoting Cicero during a conversation with a friend and was called "cute." 

Given that the conversation partner did not actually pick up on it and just thought I was attempting to say something profound, my final remarks are: philosophy fail. 

My quips are oftentimes references to things that are actually important to me - and though they are intended to be taken lightly, the thought and mind that shadows them is not; otherwise, my remarks are all for naught. 

Pesos are power

Money is power. 

I have two pesos. 

I have no power, except that to buy a pack of mints. 

And even then when you think about it, two pesos is really only $0.25USD. 

Should I exercise my power and buy the mints, or should I save the money as a form of almost not complete desolation? 

Two pesos until Tuesday. 

I also have to buy bread for our breakfast night tonight. I don't know how that is going to happen, but I have a few hours to grow some wheat, harvest it and make bread, so we'll see what happens. I also had a glimmer of hope that Manna would fall from the sky as my provision for my part in this dinner. It was a brief dash of hopeless longing for a reparation of poor planning. And the idea lingered for no more than a passing whiff of sweet pastries from the bakery two houses down. The sweet whiff that would drive any famished and hormonal person mad. 

Two pesos. 

Partido frio

Sometimes the only thing you need to bring you back to equilibrium is Coldplay. 

Just a nice, solid jam session with "A Rush of Blood to the Head" at the bus stop, making pancakes out of breadcrumbs to the album "X&Y," fixing your broken door with twine to "Green Eyes," and standing in the warming sunshine as a cool breeze flutters through your eyelashes to "The Hardest Part." 

Hey, do you want to come over for a merienda - we can drink mate, eat medialunas with Dulce de Leche, and listen to Coldplay, forever. 

Coldplay arregla mi alma. 

Patience, yago

Patience. Patience in the line for food. Patience waiting for the colectivo. Patience waiting for dinner that is served at 10pm. 

Argentina evokes a degree of long suffering in my mind

Sorry, not sorry

I usually begin my days with "I'm sorry I ate all of your Dulce de leche, again," as I'm grabbing a spoonful of a new container right in front of everybody, and then I proceed to commend the Southern Hemisphere, South America, Argentina, Córdoba, Córdoba, Barrio Urca, in which one takes the N5 orange bus, for it's spoils and remedies to entice or mend any broken soul that has had a sinus infection for the past month and has run out of socks that are hole-free from the second-to-big toe. 

And then I usually end my days with thoughts such as "deja vu, I do the same thing every day," or "what more is there to live for other than conversations in Spanish, getting lost and walking for miles, dying of hunger until you buy a McDonsld's triple decker hamburger, hanging out with friends who only wish that you were their friends back home, occasionally asking everybody if their parents worked for the government during the Dirty War and then getting mad at everyone else who asks you what the Dirty War was," my point is, I miss dorm life, where you are half a second away from everyone, and they will swaddle you. 

I'm an introvert, so I like to take time away from people and recharge my battery, but whenever it's basically 95% of me being alone, I go mad. 

And since there's no chocolate to eat away my sorrows, I have dulce de leche, which is even better.

So, sorry I ate all of your Dulce de leche, again.

Photo insecurity in Latin America

Sometimes I get insecure when none of my friends on Facebook "like" my travel photos.

And then I am oddly consoled by the fact that 20 random people I do not know on Instagram "like" the photos.

I still upload them to Facebook with the small ounce of hope that my photos will touch at least one of my friend's souls. 

Red skirt runs after the colectivo

Monday was the day of the Apocalypse when it comes to weather conditions. The first bout of warm weather turned out to be incineratingly warm, and the wind was obnoxious enough that the dust storm left a dirty brown haze in the sky and a light powdery blanket on each of the parked cars, not to mention the occasional grittiness in my mouth. But we aren´t talking about the lovely dust storms of Latin America. Let me amuse you with my story of running after the bus, or ¨colectivo¨ as we would say. The bus I must take to go anywhere out of my neighborhood is the N5. Sometimes I imagine it to be the name of a gang or drug cartel organization, but most of the time I view it as a pathetic response to infrastructure and the promises of improved transportation. 

I waited at one of the bus stops. I saw the orange letters of the N5 coming towards me like the infantry in a battle, tearing down the dusty road. I lept from my perch, and standing in the road I raised my arm in a salutatory beckon to my obligatory salvation. The bus driver and I made eye contact. He motioned something with his hand, and drove on. I can´t remember if I had the look of disbelief on my face or the look of anger and an already deep-seeded hatred for the N5. I didn´t know what to do - I had missed my bus, and the chances of another one coming by were close to another thirty minutes of waiting, which would mean that I would then be thirty mintutes late to class.

A woman across the street yelled in Spanish ¨run to the next stop,¨ which is exactly what I did, without even saying a thank you. I sprinted a good three or four streets, and as I was coming upon the back of the bus it began to take off at full speed. I stopped with disbelief because I knew that I would not be able to make it to the next stop which was an even further distance. I weighed my options. 1. I could wait for thirty minutes and take the chances that the bus be late. 2. I could walk 25 minutes down another street to the main road and take any of the buses that passed. 

As I was pondering my misfortunes, another N5 bus passed - which never happens. I stuck out my arm in hopes that the driver would be kind enough to stop even though I wasn´t even at a stop. He wasn´t even looking at the road while he was eating his sandwich. And that´s when I ran five or six blocks. The bus by then had pulled up to the red light and was waiting. The doors to the bus were open because of the heat, and just as the light was about to turn green I yelled ¨Señor¨ and jumped onto the bus as it was rolling away. I swiped my card and collapsed into a heap in the only available seat on that N5.

This tall, blonde-haired girl in a red skirt running after the bus had caused other cars to stop, but not the N5. The next time I have to run after the N5, I sure hope it´s not during another dust storm in 100 degree weather while I am wearing my pretty, red skirt. 

I came to Argentina

Insert [I came to Argentina.]

I've never had a cold until [...]

I had pink eye when I was four years old and haven't had it since until [...]

I've had two sinus infections since [...]

The flu couldn't evade me more than once since [...]

I almost had strep twice since [...]

And the doctors only prescribed ibuprofen when [...]

Shampoo indicates semi-permanency

Upgraded from travel-size to small bottle. I bought shampoo. After the fourth time of visiting the store and perusing the options. I really hope I got the right kind. 

Almost as difficult as buying milk while living in a foreign country. 

Life just got a shampoo bottle's worth of permanency. 

Yell one more time

I have a great idea! Why don't we all yell back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom at 8am because we never finished the loud conversation we were having at 2am. 

To note:

Four daughters had Count Raymond Berenger, 

Each one of them a queen, thanks to Romeo.

This man of lowly birth, this pilgrim-soul.

- Dante Alighieri

The Divine Comedy: Paradise

Canto VI

Latin American Men Suck

I'm sick and tired of Latin America. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, an emptiness in my stomach, a ringing in my ears, dirt in my nose, dust in my hair, and the feeling that I was unwholesomly objectified more than 500 times in one afternoon. 

I hate the men here. Oh how suave they are! Oh how charming with their right to grab you at any moment! How special I feel whenever I'm walking and the men just stare! (Not) Sometimes I stare back. Sometimes I just walk with a daze in my eyes. Sometimes kids will whistle and think they are that much cooler. Sometimes they flip me off. Sometimes I flip them off. 

We are past the point of appreciating individual beauty, class, or aura. As long as I have boobs and a vagina I will be praised and given my goldstar: a stare. 

I hate men. Pay no attention to me, please. This isn't the attention I want or need. I will slaughter you all. 

And it really helps that I'm blonde and 5'9" 

Wifi en mi cama

I didn't have wifi in my bed - or so I thought until the other day when I happened to sit at the end of my bed while trying to send a text message and then my whole world changed. 

If I'm snuggled and lying in bed I can blog, Facebook, and Instagram, but I cannot send iPhone text messages or FaceTime. Fail, Manzana. 

However, if I am five feet in the opposite direction of my pillow, I can most certainly have a FaceTime without it cutting out every five seconds. 

What happens when I am lying in my warm bed and do not want to get up? I hit send, toss the phone to the end of the bed, and then when I'm sure it has sent, I reel in the top blanket that it is on. 

System to beat the cold. System to use my technology amidst shitty wifi. 

Move-in day

The first two weeks back at school are the best, and I'm a little bumed that I am not there to participate in the general excitement and such. I'm not the least bit sad about not hauling a bunch of unnecessary crap up three flights of stairs. 

I miss my roomies terribly. 

Now that everyone is posting about moving in and such, I suppose I should add my two cents about my move-in day. 

My move-in day took me about 17 hours in transit and five minutes to move in. It was wonderful. Of course, I did bring my own school supplies and a monton of medicine, but other than that, I was all set. 

My decoration: Queen Victoria. May she be an inspiration to us all. 

Note: Yerba Mate, Coconut Oil, and Thomas Hardy

Café inspiración

Nunca desistas de un sueño, sólo trata de ver las señales que llevan en el. 

Thank you, quaint café 

Immune system fail

I don't know how I went from swollen glands and borderline strep and aching flu -> to blocked tear ducts and allergies -> to pink eye. 

Time period of this transformation: 3 days

You'd think I was a sickly child all over again. 

I would kill for some hot, gooey cinnamon  rolls right now. Or Ramen. 

A big lettuce, tomato, mushroom, kalamata olive, red onion, cranberry salad with feta and balsamic vinegar would probably heal me instantly.

And the first doctor only prescribed me Ibuprofen. The chances of me dying in Argentina have increased tenfold. 

I console myself with "at least I don't have malaria and typhoid and am lying in some forgotten Italian hospital." Ahem 

Should have had my apendix removed before coming. That would be pretty bad... I wonder, if my apendix burst, would I have to wait 3-4 hours for the doctor to make a house call? 

And now everything's blurry so I'll stop. 

Ibuprofen

I hate it how I've now been near death with swollen glands so augmented I can't even move my neck, and both of the two times the doctor has prescribed ibuprofen. 

He prescribed an antibiotic the first time, and then yesterday (when he made his house call, because that's what they do here), he didn't see any plaque on my throat yet and just prescribed me ibuprofen. 

I refused the prescription because I had already brought a bottle over from the states. 

And now today, I'm as sick as a dog with assured plaque on my throat. I'll even give you a vivid description - green snot and difficulty swallowing. 

I can't figure out why I've only been sick twice in the past three years, and now I've been sick twice in just the three weeks I've been here. 

I've only kissed like what, 500 people on the cheek to greet and say goodbye. 

But no hugs. I need some hug therapy. Where are my Indiana people? 

I also need that antibiotic. Sorry to be a bother, but can the doctor come over again because I wasn't lying when I said that I am going to be very sick if I'm not proactive in getting this antibiotic. 

I don't need a doctor to tell me to take a ibuprofen...

Batter's up

I've batted my eyelashes so many times today that my eyelids are tired. 

Blonde, American, and mujer charm. 

Crackin that quip whip

I can't even remember how many years I've been waiting to employ these two responses to two very specific situations. 

1. The first being: "Well, I asked you second!" 

Someone asked me my name. I didn't quite fancy giving out my name so I tried to deflect the question by asking "what's yours?" to which they exclaimed "I asked you first!" And I proudly proclaimed "well, I asked you second!" 

They were absolutely dumbfounded by this simple and hearty truth. 

Life goal made. 

2. The second being: "Laura no está, Laura se fue, Laura se escapa de mi vida."

Two of my South American friends were speaking in Spanish, trying to figure out where their friend Laura was, to which I heartily interjected the song by Nek "Laura no está," Laura se fue..... 

Second life goal made. 

I am content and at peace with my mind, no longer on edge about when I will utilize these quips I find so internally clever. 

Beauty sleep

Well, I think I'm moving to the Southern Hemisphere. I seem to be getting better sleep here than back in North America. 

One of my favorite sleep routines is to go to bed when everyone else in the house does at 12pm, sleep until 10am, get up and make coffee. Grab a spoon of Dulce de Leche, and proceed to sit in bed sipping coffee and working on homework.

Then, when I return in the afternoon around 6pm, I take my siesta until about 10pm (which is when we eat dinner). 

Unless it's Friday or Saturday...

Beauty sleep has never been proven truer. And I'm eating crap food - so my entire life has been turned around purely based on getting more than four hours of sleep. Though I do often find myself madly craving Brussel sprouts... 

Instant grams of joy

That moment when your two favorite instagrammers like all of your photos and then start following you. Hollaaaa

Gritos del Partido

Mi pasatiempo nuevo:

tumbando en mi cama y escuchando a los gritos del partido de la cercana estadio. 

My new pastime:

Lying in my bed, listening to the ceaselessly roaring battle cries of the fútbol game that is being played in the nearby stadium.  

I don't know who's playing since Belgrano played last night. 

Parada de colectivo

Whenever I'm standing at the parada de colectivo, and someone asks me for money or to swipe my bus card for them when they can't pay me back, I do not find the sweetness in my heart to respond in Spanish or grant them grace. I simply respond in the most redneck accent "I caint inderr stand uh licka what yer sayin." Sometimes I respond in broken Spanish with an Australian accent. And if I really want  throw a curve ball, I throw in a few numbers in German. And apparently this happens to me a lot. 

I've actually swiped my card several times, and I don't mind at all if they pay me en efectivo. One bus ride is $4.10pesos. They give me a five, and since they're at my mercy I cannot give them change. Basically, every five times this happens I get a free ride, minus the extra time I employ charging that money back onto the card. It's like getting store credit or frequent flyer miles.

At the same time, this is a small victory especially if you use the dólor blue value which is about $8pesos/$1USD. After all of this, I make a good $0.40USD. 

I'm heartless. And I evidently spent way too much brain power on this trivial occurrence. See you at the bus stop. 

Wifi works from my bed... Sometimes

If we are having a textversation, and then I just stop responding, there is a 100% chance that I am in Argentina and the wifi is simply acting as normal: never consistent. 

There is also a 100% chance that I am snuggled in a warm straw bed and will most definitely not get up and go somewhere else in the house to find the optimum wifi signal. 

I will simply sigh, put down my phone, put my earplugs back in, and resume my five-hour siesta fiesta. 

Hasta la never pronto. 

Lines, vines, and trying contrasts without pants

I'm just going to go ahead and ruin it for ya'll. The next time you watch the movie "Letters to Juliet," please note all of the extras in every scene wearing green/teal pants. Literally, all of the people are wearing green pants. 

Why? 

To contrast with the wine-red building façades. 

What does my photo below lack? The contrast of a living and not dormant vine. 

Calling anyone with green pants...

Dulce de leche

What is the melting point of Dulce de leche? 

Answer: My heart

Scalding away my hypothermia

Well, that was the best two-minute scalding hot water trickling at a slow drip shower I've had in a long time. 

You go Argentina! 

last viernes noche

Whenever people in Córdoba, Argentina say they are going out in the evening for a small, quiet gathering, you know to bring your phone charger and the number of a remis and then cancel any plans  until the next afternoon. 

While at this quiet gathering, you would then proceed to sample the local food and drink while casually avoiding any photos, although extreme photo bombing is acceptable.

It might be 20 degrees Fahrenheit outside, but there is a nice glowing feeling inside with the small and quiet cluster of people - the warmest you've been in two weeks.

As far as dancing the local dance, men always take the lead - which is for the best when you don't know how to dance at all, or are a little confused by all of the Andean pipe music and house lights that are on. 

My least favorite thing to do is smoke. My least least favorite thing to do is second-hand smoke. 

Como se dice "Swing-dancing the Tango."

And that one time I walked 25 cuadros along Rafael Nuñez in the cold because I got off the bus too late. 

Siesta fiesta

So that whole siesta thing isn't to be taken lightly. Literally everything except the buses shut down for at least four hours in the afternoon. I got out of class early one afternoon and decided to knock out all of my errands while I had the free time, to which I discovered that I was in a ghost town of sleeping people. I didn't know what to do, until someone suggested that I just take a nap. "But what about all of the things I have to get done?!" 

No te preocupes. 

Let's just say that it really only took me one week to adjust to this kind of schedule. This way of life. We'll see how long I can keep this up.

Cuando en Córdoba

"Cuándo en Córdoba!" seems to be our go-to phrase whenever we do anything different from what we're used to. As in, eating 15 empanadas. As in, dancing until 5am on the weekends. As in, walking 15 additional blocks because you got off the bus too early. As in, eating Dulce de Leche with a spoon every morning because you can. As in, always getting lost and over-committing to social engagements of taking Mate. As in kissing everyone you say hello to on the cheek. 

Cuándo en Córdoba!

I want some MALK

I decided that I needed milk in my coffee. I went to the mini-supermercado y then proceeded to peruse the 10 different kinds of milk I could buy. 

Just think about all of the different milk options in Walmart - each slightly differing from the other, but like I said, only slightly.

I will still never know what kind of milk I ended up getting, but it does taste like milk.

And then that milk expired three days ago, and I'm still drinking it because that is what we do here. Food regulations are applied loosely. 

Día de la muerte de Kátie

I literally thought I was going to die the fourth night I was here. My glands were so swollen I couldn't move my neck. I had chills because I had a fever. I couldn't see the light. 

After a minor break down in the international office trying to communicate in Spanish my imminent death, I was told that the doctors made home visits. Literally, ambulances come to your house just so they can prescribe you some of them fine drugs.

I was sort of livid because I had called my doctor before I left on this trip to see if she could give me a z-pack in the event that this did happen to me, but no. 

I really did try to self medicate the first two days upon feeling ill. Thank goodness I had my netty pot, lemons, garlic, and salt water to gargle. 

I don't even think it was the throat part that was so terrible. The fact that there is no central heating, and all of the windows have huge cracks and it's 30 degrees outside on top of having a fever was probably when I lost all hope. All I needed was a big fat antibiotic and I was okay. 

Needless to say, if I ever need medical attention again, I can handle it in Spanish. 

Cuando me enamoro

Estoy enamorada con el conductor de mi colectivo. 

I am in love with my bus driver. I have taken the bus at least twenty times since the first and only sighting, but I still have hope in seeing him again so I can just gaze into the bus' review mirror. 

One night at dinner I decided to reveal my burning passion for our N5 bus driver, and I said that he was "guapisimo" upon which I was chided for the incorrect use of the word. Apparently no one uses "guapo" in this part of the Latin American world. No. "Guapo" is for Mexico only. "Lindo." 

Replace "tu" with "vos." 

Replace fine wine with Fernet. 

My whole life has been a lie. 

Desorden y desorganizado

The most comical every day scene on the streets of Córdoba is the array of various displays of transportation. I have not yet ventured to take out my phone and snap a quick photo in fear of being robbed, kidnapped, and thrown into the nearby river, but this photo is on my list, believe me. I can't help but let out a heartily obnoxious chortle every time I see this unusual occurrence. 

Let me paint the picture for you. Aside from the three lanes actually being used as four and a half lanes, the traffic flow is constantly in motion, and you squeak with fearing insistence of the barely making it preservation of human life as you run to cross the street. 

These are the vehicles in order of appearance: 

Motorbike

Honda CR-V

Car from the 70's 

Car from the 40's 

Horse racing down the street pulling a cart

Brand new BMW

Every time I see the horse pulling a cart at 20 mph in high traffic, I just want to yell "Lightening! Copperhead! Swedish meatballs!" at the top of my lungs and clap my hands.

Spanish class in America

That one time when you took four years of Latin as a child and then three Spanish grammar and two Spanish literature in college and then went to Argentina and realized that five Spanish classes just wasn't going to cut it. That was my first day. But I was also recovering from the travel at the same time so I'm not sure how mentally with it I was anyways. 

And then I sampled the local drink and could see the new Jerusalem. 

Como se dice "hinge"

For some reason, the door to my room fell off the only hinge it was on. I understand that the wind is howling outside and all, but this door is an inside hall room door. After I shoved the almost balsa wood door back into and onto the door frame,  the door became only slightly loose and proceeded to bang obnoxiously as the wind rhythmically sucked its way through the house. And it's like 3am on a Sunday night.

Salchicha

It is 5:30am, and I literally danced Merengue, Salsa, y Cuartato the entire night. And now, as I attempt to fall asleep at 6am, the dog that is yelping next door better be being eaten alive or slaughtered. Heck, find me a nice boulder, mound of dirt, or machete.

I used to like dogs. Emphasis on the past tense.

First things first: leaving the airport in Merica

Much to my anticipation, my suitcase was 20 lbs over the weight limit. I only had one suitcase, but I blame the weight on the Texas tea towel souvenirs and Chacos. Thankfully I had packed a backpack in my suitcase so I was able to quickly transfer some of the weight from my suitcase.

Transferred items:
Shoes
Salt and pepper shakers
Southern Living magazine
Twine

I think the weight was in shoes. Looks like I'll be leaving most of those here.

So there you have it, after a frantic panic leaving the airport. My theory is that since my suitcase weighed more than half of what I actually weigh, and other people probably weigh 2-3 times the weight of the suitcase, I shouldn't have to be penalized because my clothes weigh more than I do. Fat people...  I mean, what's the difference in weighing 115 pounds and my suitcase being 70 pounds, and other people's suitcases weighing 50 pounds and weighing 160 plus? A good 25 something pounds still heavier than my weight. I mean it's not like I have an opinion about this nickel and dime or pound exceeding scenario or anything.

Merica

Well, this is it. Adios, America. America, here I come!

It is following me. Irony?

I put a picture of demons attacking St. Anthony on one of my posts, and now it shows up as my blog photo every time I post the link anywhere. Sorry. Not sorry. 

THREE DECADES

As two decades of my life draw to a close and my third about to begin, I realize that moments like these are not more significant than any other. In fact, their significance is so fleeting that they become a dry ritual 1. Because they are annual, but they are refreshing because 2. They always seem to catch us off-guard. 

As in: panicking the moment before you have to blow out the candles. You hold your breath just a little bit longer in anticipation of the right "wish" or perhaps for its mere validity. You fully know this ritual happens every year, and yet, every year you are caught off guard as if you'd never known of the simple concept of "birthday."

As in: Christmas Eve and trying to stay awake to meet Santa, or catch your parents. You fully know that all you have to do is simply stay awake, but it always turns out to be the one night of the year you absolutely cannot keep your eyes open. 

I remember a yearly ritual I attempted as an elementary student through middle school upon the turn of every new year. I decided that upon waking up on every January 1st, I would say one word, a particular word, and every year that word would eventually form a sentence. I think I started the first year with a pronoun, but after that initial year I must have forgotten what I had said the year prior because each year after Year Pronoun I probably said the same pronoun. I remember waking up each year and scrambling to remember what word I was actually going to say. I proceeded with the concept and no real objective outcome in mind, but I could never quite get it right, even though I had been attempting it for four years. This odd practice ceased upon high school, just to clarify so no one thinks I'm all that weird. 

It might have helped actually having a sentence planned out in the first place. Maybe that was my mistake. Or maybe it was because I wasn't too keen on getting it right. Maybe it was a lousy attempt to celebrate a tradition that was automatically going to pass me by whether or not I participated in some recognition or festivity of it. 

I am actually quite thankful that we don't go spending the rest of our time thinking about making wishes for birthdays, preparing for the first day of school, New Years, holidays and other suches. The stark realization of every time makes us recognize the continuity and consistency of life and our vital participation in it. 

Time. Time can be argued in many ways, including dimensions, mental states, and other fascinating whatnots. My argument of time for this particular post is that these caught-off guard kind of rituals allow us to feel time. These are the moments, the markers (no matter their significance and the perception of the timeline of situations) that let us feel time. Feeling a measurement of time, no, but feeling the presence of time, yes. Just for a stark second. 

So this is what I have to say at the close of my two decades. I have no advice for the young-ins, others in Satan-spawned situations (prayer and relationship with God will get you through), great quotes or mantras to pass on, but all I know is that I will be blowing out 21 representational candles tomorrow. I will still be caught off guard in that exact moment. I will be reminded by this insignificant action that I am alive, once again. 

Sleeping fluke

Trying to go to bed early -> insomnia -> acid reflux -> trying to fall asleep with insomnia and acid reflux WHILE sitting upright

YOLO 

Suitcase spoiler

Suitcase: signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered. 

Unusual contents of note: 

coconut oil

twine

salt and pepper shakers

Sounds dirty. 

Bee Enraged.

Enragement. Can you please define enragement?
Enragement happens when the computer won't print to the printer, and the scanner won't scan to the computer. Yes, we have called India, have had neighbors try to fix the problem, and we have befriended the gracious employees of multiple UPS stores. Our blood pressure has risen to unimaginable levels of enragement due to the faulty compatibility and communication between our electronics.
Enragement.

Twitter revelation

I have eight twitter accounts, all of which will remain unnamed. 8 twitter accounts = 8 different email addresses and passwords I had to set up. 

My main twitter account is not linked to or following any of the other accounts, so don't think you're so clever by doing some digging. 

But also, just because I may not be following a main-stream twitter account, it doesn't necessarily imply that I am the owner of that twitter account. You will never know. 

I haven't exactly been tweeting via any of the other accounts because it's a summer holiday all around. 

The awkward moment: I have been receiving notifications all week by the same person who has not been merely following and then unfollowing one of my accounts, but rather, this person seems to have figured me out and has actually begun following all of my accounts. 

What confusion I've experienced all week! And what a calamity now! My identity has been revealed, or my game, at least discovered. 

And don't think that you can find this one person and then figure out my other accounts. I wouldn't let it go that far.

I was almost outsmarted on my own strategy, by a complete outsider who would have had no suspicions or insight whatsoever. 

I would commend this person, but I cannot let on that they have found a kindred spirit in me. 

Concert, at least it's not my kind of concerto

Confession time: I know all of the lyrics to two of Lecrae's songs. I would have preferred Lecrae over Dierks Bentley. Heck, T-Swift could have performed, and I wouldn't have cared.

At most, they didn't choose Keane, The Killers, M83, Paolo Nutini, Travis, Arctic Monkeys, Boy and Bear, The Black Keys, Coldplay, Calvin Harris, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, Flo Rida, Florence, Foster the People, Gin Wigmore, Josh Pyke, Miike Snow, Moby, MGMT, Mumford and Sons, Passion Pit, The Shins, The Temper Trap, Tommy Sparks, Daft Punk, Two Door Cinema Club, Weezer, The xx, or Yann Tiersen. 

Heaven forbid Samford have Yann Tiersen perform on campus while I'm not there. I would literally be at a crossroads if that happened. 

Fire ants

It rained for a solid two days. We've sprayed around the floorboards for ants, and they're still infiltrating the premises. I've already been bitten twice earlier today by simply sitting on my bed. 

As I turn the last page of my book I feel a tickling presence on my arm... Could it be? Slap. Fireant down. Forearm on fire. My leg! Slap. Nothing there. An ant on the pillow next to mine. One exaggerated sweep of the arm. Head itches. Left ankle. Belly. Ear. Nothing there. Yet.

These phantom feelings are legitimate responses to a higher probability that at this rate, I will most definitely be bitten at least fifteen times by 7am tomorrow. Provided that I exercise the same level of caution, which would be impossible since I will hopefully be sleeping soundly sans apocalyptic-scaled pain of fire. 

I shake my sheets, the cortisone on standby. My only consolation is that this created will not have an afterlife with the Creator. Is that harsh? Is that arrogant? Is that sacreligious? 

Perhaps in order to express the torment of my mind, although only a trifling matter, really, I must simply provide my faithful audience with Michelangelo's first painting. 

FIRE ANTS, EVERYWHERE

Ay Dryer

I only use the dryer to dry my jeans, socks, and sheets anyways.

Good thing I'm not too attached to my dryer.
Take me to South America anytime, ay ay ay!

The Glass Woman

"Amelie" is a movie near and embodied by my heart. Today I had a revelation about my future, and I am not too keen on its results. If you've never seen the movie, then further reading of this post would be futile, and I most certainly discourage it. You have been cautioned of wasted time.

The Glass Man is one of the most important characters in the movie, in my opinion, and it is not simply because my revelation was of the correlation between us two. You would remember that The Glass Man is so fragile that even a handshake would cripple his fingers, and he has painted the same painting every year for the past twenty years. 

I have painted the same painting FOUR TIMES this year already. I reckoned that if I keep this up until I am thirty, simple math would indicate that I will have forty fine birthday presents to give, given that I will have forty as equally deserving friends. Perhaps the more deserving will receive a set of three paintings (I still have to work out those details). But, I could be one of those people who hoards the identical paintings in a forgotten, musty closet, or then again displays all of them on one wall. 

And wouldn't you like to know what I've been painting! 

Engaged... preoccupied, but not by an engagement

I reactivated The Facebooks in lieu of connecting with my first overseas study abroad friend.

And then for an hour I proceeded to sift through all of the summer engagement photos I had missed on my almost two months long moratorium.

Here's to cats.

Shot odd

Every night at 10pm for the past week I have been sitting in my bed reading and eating cheese and crackers. And every night I hear a loud, gunshot-like pop. I anticipated today's supposed body count of 6, and disappointingly heard nothing.

Can't have it all.

Savage at Tinker Creek

"These are morning matters, pictures you dream as the final wave heaves you up on the sand to the bright light and drying air. You remember pressure, and a curved sleep you rested against, soft, like a scallop in its shell. But the air hardens your skin; you stand; you leave the lighted shore to explore some dim headland, and soon you're lost I'm the leafy interior, intent, remembering nothing."

Thank you, Ms. Dillard, for so putting into words the phenomenon of the inexplicable. 

Thankfully, I do not have a cat with bloody paws that look like roses, but I am quite sure that the dried bunch of roses on my dresser look like a cat's bloody paws. If not that, "the memory remains of something powerful playing over me." 

Old pims, they are

This is the first blog post I actually hope nobody I met today will read, and I doubt they will - unless they have impeccable stalking skills for their seasoned ages that are well over sixty. I don't exactly know how, but I always seem to be the one not only (and not distastefully) "stuck with" talking to the "old person," but I am the one who attends social gatherings of literally all elderly women. You bet I'm out finding a husband in this world -- lifetime!

I wouldn't exactly call some of them sages, just as I wouldn't call some of them the desired grandparents. Them. What is them? I've categorized the elderly as a them. Qualifications for being considered a them have been simplified to a mere ardent nature of reflection. I neither liked the ardent nature nor the reflections I received as being the objectified "young one." I attended a lovely tea party, as I was hoping to share camaraderie with humans other than I, me, and myself. I did, towards the end, finally meeting my own match (only off by sixty years), which did give me hope in the them race.

After making my rounds inside and always near the pastry and finger sandwich tables, I decided that I would like to talk outside in the most lovely backyard garden you'll see from here to Windsor Castle. I breathed in a full breath of fresh outside air and exhaled a heavy sigh of reproachful second-hand smoking. Pretty dress: ruined by a smoke smell. But what could I do? I had already become the object of them, teasing my youthful brain. It was not pleasant, for I could not identify with the secret of birthing either a boy or a girl, or the way menopause did all sorts of things, or how her fifth husband married her third husband, or how they drink every night until the morning. As in, how are they still alive?

I decided that by now all of us had had plenty to drink, and spirits being high and absurd I could get away with saying anything, regardless of my age. This was my chance, this was my time to make a statement. Bastille Day it was! But none of them were English so it wouldn't offend them anyways.

In the most -I have something extremely grave and important to tell you all as a secret- kind of way, I leaned in with authority. And then -in the most jovial manner, as a Edison would have when explaining his invention, or some mission-hearted coffee shop owner would when explaining the importance of freeing slaves through coffee and burlap, or Hitler when he was giving his grandly persuasive speech- I toasted to Bastille Day and everything commendable about it. Cheers all around with them who after the toast proceeded to ask me what Bastille Day even was. As my soul silently died inside upon brief explanation and they were no longer keen on catching up on the latest history, I realized that that was both exactly what I wanted to happen, and what I did not want to happen. I wanted to be able to share a celebration and understood word, but I didn't want to be "that youthful know-it-all." As I self-scorned and chewed on some Pimm fruit I thought to myself, "I have been put back in my place; time cannot be transcended."

A polite escape was excused by a scone, and that was when I met my match. Imagine having an hour-long conversation with an eighty-year old woman about Queen Victoria, shipyards, fedoras, and beastly men! She was my kind of woman.

... And this blog post has yet to be finished to compliment it's original objective, but seeing how it is late, and almost the close of Bastille Day, yes, that is an important detail, and my poor toxified by English pim soda fingers are not in full collaboration with my tired mind, I must retire, as this post must retire, for now, upon the close of Bastille Day. 

Bastille Day

How invigoratingly odd it was to be a half-Australian living in America, about to leave for Argentina on this Bastille Day, celebrating the upcoming birth of an English monarch for my afternoon tea.

Dream-promise

For the second time this year, I have been extremely blessed to have been touched by an angel through a dream, and I truly believe that it was more than simply a favoring situation in thought of resolve. 

I dream about people all of the time. I dream about people who are currently in my life, and I dream about people who have left it, but never about people who have died - except for these two instances, and even then, these angels were not on my heavy mind before my eyes shut their heavy eyelids on my heavy head that rested upon my comforting pillow. 

The first dream earlier this year comprised a conversation over tea. The second dream, the most recent, was simply a long hug. 

This long hug in my dream was a reminder to my subconscious that the presence of God is an ever-faithful and total loving in every season of my life. 

This dream has given me the encouragement to keep soldering on. 

Not that every dream has a particular meaning, and I'm not going to go soul-searching in my dreams, but I also do believe that if The Lord revealed his promises through dreams to many people in the Bible, then he can also use that avenue for me today. 

Press

"For what were so many thousands of victims sacrificed by the dagger? What were so many battles for if, in the end, you had to decide on a peaceful discussion in the press?"

Oh, CP as a LAS class. How you charmed me then. How you charm me now. 

Facundo is finally taking this savage to Argentina. 

zero dark thirty

The little sister was given an iTunes giftcard, and I would like to take this time to commend her choice of purchases.

As of now, we have
Zero Dark Thirty
Top Gun

If anyone would like to contribute to the Little Sister Inspired to join the military iTunes giftcard fund, please comment below.

angry doodles

Here's to the customer service aspect of my job.

To the man on the phone yelling "if I weren't in the store right now I'd be yelling at you!"

Try me. I bet you beat your wife and kids, and you probably kicked the cat while you were pouring your coffee this morning. So suck it. 

We appreciate your business. Thank you, and have a wonderful day, sir. 

Thank you for my angry doodles.

Terms & Conditions

I just read the entire Terms & Conditions for Instagram. 

Four points that were particularly interesting:

1. It is possible that Instagram may cause physical injuries. Instagram is not personally liable for these injuries.

2. It is not to be used as a means of stalking.

3. Exportation and software downloads from any country that has an embargo on goods with the U.S. are forbidden.

4. If used in a manner that is not in compliance with the Instagram specifications, one could be taken to local court.

Friday night. YOLO.

I am an enthused and enthusiastic enthusiast!

The plethora of travel blogs I've read today all include the same generic tag line: enthusiast.

Obviously. You wouldn't be personally blogging about any subject if you weren't absolutely enthusiastic about it, and you wouldn't be traveling if you weren't absolutely enthused about traveling.

You are an enthusiast, I get it. Whatever that really means...

Save yourself the space and description, and tell me something completely far out about yourself, other than I am oh so enthused and such an enthusiast about traveling.

Take Instagram descriptions, for example. My propensity to follow someone whose description is a quote from Nietzsche or George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham is more likely than if someone's description lists PETA or coffee connoisseur and travel enthusiast. No kidding.

Each to his own. And hey, at least you're an enthusiast about something. But let's not taint that word, shall we.

How about something spicy: 

1. coffee villain 

2. traveling serf  

3. "Ground beans are my juice!" 

4. "Finding my multiple personalities in every corner of this round world!"

5. "Self-scattering the groundwork for my future ashes."

6. "Losing my epidermis in as many places I can!"

7. "French Press or Bastille Day Bust"

8. "Cain't get better than rotting wood."

9. "My lunch, your lust."

10. "Professional Juanes stalker"

Anything, really, trumps "enthusiast." 

etsy -- from the future

The baby sister is setting up an Etsy account and asked me, "should I write my 'About' in third person -- how should I write it?"
I responded in a growling-whispering-ominously-toned voice "from the fuuuutttuuureee."

"Muwahahaha ra ra ra," I laughed in my head while I imagined some poor soul wondering in which dimension the baby sister was... or will be.

selfish jean

I bought a pair of the most rad jeans from a thrift store about eight years ago and have since then grown a few inches in height.

What was done to the jeans this morning: they were cut and made into shorts (definitely not bermudas). Holla.

Here's to another great eight years!

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Selfish Jean

Amp it off

How common, exactly, are index finger amputations? 

the tangibility of time

I'm a hypocrite. And I don't care.

After having a semi-okay-I-am-actually-slowly-dying-in-my-swivel-chair day at work, I decided that my shopping list and lust would have to be my shopping therapy for the week.

I spent 26.67% of an hour's worth of pay on a tube of purple lipstick. Living is expensive period, yet alone the pampering part. Should have gone for the black lipstick. Next time, over time.

South America, here I come!

online shopping!!!!! xoxox yippee

My idea of online shopping includes and only includes the following:
cheapest textbooks
Narnian swords (specifically High King Peter's)
Che posters
dainty signet rings
Anne Boleyn necklaces
teacups with thin lips
anything leathery
Army Surplus Store

... and it's not even shopping. It's more like browsing, lusting, and then going outside to paint.

Whim

I pulled out the cuticle from my left index finger ON A WHIM, yesterday, and now I can feel it pulsating in pain.

Once, I read a book about whims, ironically, while on a whim, and it seems as though I have proven the point on much smaller scale.

"Just as man cannot survive by any random means, but must discover and
practice the principles which his survival requires, so man’s self-interest
cannot be determined by blind desires or random whims, but must be
discovered and achieved by the guidance of rational principles. This is why
the Objectivist ethics is a morality of rational self-interest—or of rational
selfishness."
-On the Virtue of Selfishness, Ayn Rand

I was self-interested by a whim on which I acted by such a deed that was based on poor judgement with no concrete rationality at all -- by which, of course, I presumed as a first-response effort to maintain my general humanity, but in turn, was the exact antithesis of a desired rationale that would have kept me from harm and led a life of happiness. Morals are destroyed by whims. My finger still hurts.

whim. whim. wimp. whimper. in pain.