“When there is hope, there is salvation.”

Sometimes it’s all about the delivery. If someone handed me a flier with that quote, I would have scanned it, rolled my eyes, and thrown it away. If someone screamed it in front of the CBC, hands waving frantically and eyes rolling back, I would have backed away slowly and then made a run for it. If one of my Mormon missionary friends had written it to me in a letter, I would have hesitated to respond, and if a priest had said it, well, I wouldn’t have heard it, because that whole church place is somewhere I’ve successfully avoided for a very long time.

But it was just a routine day, a routine job, a scripted transaction relentlessly repeated. Then – a glitch in the system, the typical process to smooth it out, a five minute delay. And when I delivered the results, the guest smiled and threw that line to me in accented English. I was too off guard to catch it, so it hit me in the face. I suddenly feel almost spiritual!

And yet, here I am. Still sick. Still sending wounded glances toward a god who returns them only with a steady gaze of reproach. Sober two days now - you’d think he’d ease up. Can’t he see I’m reformed? I’m a new woman! He must not trust me. Ah well. I don’t really trust me either.

Not that anyone likes being sick, but I think I take it worse than most. It always seems like a personal attack, like God is firing a lightning dart directly at my sinuses - a hand crafted lightning dart that He took time to shape and decorate. He could speak it into existence but He likes to add that homemade, loving touch. Not the pure, unadulterated kind of love but the bitter and jealous type, because he thinks I am cheating on him. He thinks I have strayed, that my heart isn’t completely his anymore. I guess when you promise God all your life you will be a nun he gets a little resentful when you turn into an alcoholic instead.

I blame Hawaii. More than Hawaii, I blame David. But Hawaii brought me into close proximity with David, so maybe I should reconsider which I blame more. Then again, David enabled my trip to Hawaii by offering his hospitality should I decide to go. Of course, I never would have spoken with David about that, so maybe I’m on the wrong track. Maybe I should blame Hyan. Yes. Surely it’s all Hyan’s fault. When all else fails, blame the English.

In Hawaii, David introduced me to my gateway alcohol: Wailua Wheat. It’s my favorite beer. I would say my new favorite beer, except I’ve never been a beer person. Beer and I have always had a testy relationship where if he tries to slide his hand up my skirt, I punch him in the face. The occasional beer has had marginal success, but it never takes long for me to realize that I’m simply not interested, or that he’s a scumbag at heart.

But Wailua… Wailua is different. Wailua allures rather than demands.  It is shy and subtle, gentle and sweet, and it seduced me on the hidden beaches of Hawaii. We shared beautiful moments together—sitting at Ho’okena mesmerized by the pristine ocean water, watching the sunset at Two Step, and relaxing in the backseat as David maneuvered our way across winding country roads at alarming speeds and with a Red Stripe in hand.

A Red Stripe that I had given him. After a Steinlagar that I had given him. And before that another Red Stripe. I should have known when I assisted rather than thwarted his attempts to drink and drive that Wailua was affecting me adversely. Now I know, but it’s too late. I’m in love. And if I can’t press my lips to my truest darling—well, at least I have Whiskey sours, sangria, Coors Light, Steinlagar, and mojitos to substitute.

Or at least, that was my thinking. But now God so childishly throws this dart at me! Either he’s trying to suggest a monogamous relationship, or he’s trying to suggest abstinence. Probably abstinence. But am I strong enough to stay away from my Wailua forever? It’s a Limited Edition, so it will eventually leave me, anyway. Why not enjoy it while it lasts?  In true Catholic spirit, I’ll just repent later.

“No one will ever love you like I do.”

I recently read a James Patterson book, and like with most James Patterson books it was a very torturous experience, complete with bad writing, poor plot, and pitiful characterization. Horrifying fact: James Patterson used to be one of my favorite authors. Don’t hold it against me, though, please. I was young then! Everyone’s confused when they’re in middle school.

His books, as you might know, although I pity you if the knowledge is by experience, tend toward the murder mystery serial killer genre. I think he might have been a good writer once, but nowadays he uses his old character Alex Cross to sell books, rather than a decent storyline. In his latest book, gifted to me for Christmas from my sister-in-law, he subtitles the first section: “No one will ever love you like I do.” Creepy, no? I got a chill. No, really. Then I read and found out that Alex’s wife used to always tell him that. It’s not meant to be creepy, then, but loving. But I ask you, can it really ever be anything other than creepy?? I think not.

In Germany we went to a castle in Heidelburg that had a museum of alchemy/pharmacy. There were different "sets," if you will...different rooms showcasing how pharmacies looked in different periods of time. I stood in front of this one for a photo, and my friend, instead of saying "Say cheese!" said "Imagine you're a pharmacist!" And my smile disappeared. And my face turned pale. And I felt ill. And then she took the picture. If you look at it closely, you can see the horror in my eyes. Honestly, what an awful thing to say! It's like saying, right when you're about to snap a picture of someone, "Think of all the starving children in Africa!" It simply isn't done.

Monica has been here three weeks, and she's already kissed a boy. Annette has been here three days, and she's already kissed a boy. I've been here five months, and I'm still just as lonely and friendless and boyless in the whole wide world as always. *tear* I suppose I could pretend to genuinely be sad about that, but the real cause for tristeza is the fact that there isn't a single boy I want to kiss, or even hug, or even talk to, let alone permit the traditional two kisses on the cheek upon introduction. Spanish boys are lame because they're Spanish, Italian boys are lame because they're scumbags, American boys are lame because they speak English, English boys are lame for the same reason, and Jamaicans, well, let's not even go there. Furthermore, out of the hundreds of boys I see every day between walking in center, attending the University, and using public transportation, I've seen about six attractive men the entire time I've been here. Excepting, of course, yesterday. Depressing fact: Monica and I went with our friend to a gay club last night because it was his birthday, and we saw more attractive men there than we've seen in the past three weeks of going out to bars and discotecas practically every night of every weekend.

Once all is said and done none of this really matters, because men are stupid and brutish and they make you cry and chocolate is a gazillion million times better.

Of course, Lent has begun, which means desserts have been forfeited, which means these 40 days might be very dark, depressing days, indeed.

"Monica is the best person to go with to Karaoke because she's the worst." -Annette

(I hope this works...she's plotting to delete it from my computer so I have to save it somewhere):

And she wasn't even drunk yet.

It’s Thuuuuursday! And vacations are coming to an end, which means…class with Jorge at 6. Which is rather inconveniently smack in the middle of the day. At least, if you wake up at 11, it is. Especially if you then wait to get ready for the day until 4. Then you want to go have your day but someone needs to practice English. Ah well. It was an okay class. Except I kind of got bored listening to him and trying to decipher what he said. It’s days like this I think I would be a horrible teacher, after all, and shouldn’t consider it for a career. But! I kind of snapped out of that and realized that he’s my favorite and he’s actually saying some pretty interesting things, if in rather mutilated English. I’m happy that he tries, though. He just goes for it! And it’s not even really mutilated, that’s just the English major/snob in me talking. He can communicate very well, with effort. But he has the energy to give the effort, so all is well.

We picked up Monica today! It was nice to see Alvaro, Gabriella, and Susan. J Alvaro called me annoying, but it’s okay, because I know he doesn’t mean it, and that he secretly wishes I were his very own daughter. He also threatened to kill me, as I predicted, because I want to change my classes for next semester for…the forth or fifth time. Annoying? Me? Ha! Tierna, more like.

Monica FREAKS ME OUT because sometimes she starts talking in a voice that is THE EXACT SAME as Kristin’s. The same tone, the same pitch, the same everything. I had to tell her to stop mid-sentence because it was wigging me out too much. They’re both San Diego girls with San Diego slang and a San Diego dialect, and they sound crazy-alike. I never thought of Kristin having a distinct dialect until seeing the similarities in Monica. It’s not a bad thing, though! It makes me want to hug her! Or start crying, I haven’t decided which.

As soon as we brought Monica home I had to leave for class with Jorge. An hour later I returned to the house and Jorge, Alex, and I showed Monica where the Metro is. Monica and I walked ahead of them and talked the entire time in rapid-fire English. I felt a little bad for it, but I don’t know Spanish well enough to include everyone. I’m not that smooth. I’m not smooth at all, really.

Then we walked home, Alex went with Jorge to Jorge’s house, and Monica and I talked for an hour an a half or so. Until dinner. Where we had vegetarian food! Which was good. A salad and tortilla de patata. But I’m wondering where the hell my steak was to supplement it.

Not really, I’m just kidding. I haven’t had steak in so long, I don’t even miss it anymore. Really, at first I missed American food sooo much but I’m finally to the point where I don’t. American food, pah! I don’t need TGIFs or Dennys or Panda Express or even….well, maybe I need In N Out. I misseth that place mucho.

Anyway. Hilary won NH. Didn’t expect that one. At all. Don’t know if I’m happy about it, either. But honestly, I’m sooo out of the loop on American politics. I have not a clue what is going on in that country at the moment. I think I know more about East Asian politics, actually, and I hardly know a damn thing about East Asian politics. I keep trying to watch the democratic debates through youtube so I have some kind of a clue, at least, but my Internet keeps abandoning me. Don’t know don’t know. I think I’ll cry if a Republican wins the overall election, is the bottom line. And I’ll come right back to Spain and never go back! Or at least I would if they would let me, but the Spanish consulate is rather picky about that. L Maybe Ireland would have me! Freakin’ expensive there, though. You know, people say if you have a problem with America, leave, but it’s harder than it might seem. Lots of annoying paperwork, and half the time they still don’t give you what you want. Maybe I could go to Africa…

By the way, self. You officially lost the bet. L She’s the tall one.

He andado casi toda la ciudad con Samine hoy. Lo hemos pasado bien! No se que voy a hacer sin esa chica. Es mi vida! O por lo menos, mi favorita. Se va el 24 de este mes, que triste.  :( No quiero que ella me dejes!

He despidido a mi familia. Mi madre, mis hermanos, mis cunadas, todo el mundo. Sin mi padre, porque el puede hacer nada incorrecto. :) Pero todo el mundo sin el…grrr! No me escriben nunca ellos! He escrito a todos y ha pasado dos o tres semanas y todavia nadie me ha escrito. Que tragedia es me vida! Quiero una familia nueva! Puedo cambiarla por fa' por fa' por fa'?

No se donde se ha ido Christy. Creo que ella ha desaparecido. Fuera del mundo. Con su novio. No existo cuando Ken esta cerca, de verdad. Pero! No estoy amarga! Que? No estoy!

De verdad, no estoy, porque Samine es la major y me divierto muchismo con ella. Hemos ido al cine hoy…horrible! Casi he muerto de tristeza! Hemos visto Las Trece Rosas. La he visto una vez antes. No se porque una persona la veria mas que una vez…sin si a la persona le gusta muchisimo el dolor en el corazon. Y en el garganta. Por intentar no llorar. Sin tener exito.  Que tonta soy...

No se…no tengo las palabras en ingles hoy. Es que tengo demasiado sueno. Cuando tengo sueno, mi ingles es inutil. No es muy logico, me parece, pero...mi vida no seria mi vida si fuera logica.