One Could Say I Put My Sweat And Blood Into It...

I analysed Giotto's The Morning of Christ for my art history class.
Upon handing in my paper, my teacher opens my duo-tang to the picture of the fresco, and low and behold, I didn't remember Jesus being quite so bloody.
" C'est intéressant, ça" She remarks, dumbfounded.
I remark that my knuckles are chapped, cracked and bleeding...
However, I don't want to ruin the mysticism of this moment.

" S as in..."

After an hour spent on the phone, I really feel that Belkine and I have really gotten to know eachother. While our different languages may not allow us to understand each other on a basic or even practical level, our spiritual understanding is without limits.

Belkine: " H as in House, D as in Door"
Me: " No, actually it's G as in Gate, I as in Island, T as in Truck, T as in Temperature, E as in Earring and S as in Sodom..SNAKE!"

Family Bonding

A Sunday afternoon spent with my family picking apples ( well, at least they were, I only pretended to for a memorable picture). As was to be expected, Sebastian was drawn towards and uniquely picked either unripe or otherwise unappetizingly miniscule apples.

Doors: A History

Like the good hick I am, I hate doors because ( like ovens, water coolers and most other mechanical devices) I don´t understand them. Also ( just like ovens, water coolers, and most other mechanical devices) I have a tendancy to break and destroy them. Muwhahahah. When it comes to doors, however, I think its the mechanicism of the lock that mystifies me. Anyway, the reason Im even discussing doors to begin with is that yesterday to my host familys annoyance and terror, I managed to leave the door unlocked and open on several occasions. This resulted in lessons in door locking and a flood of terrible memories from years past; getting locked in bathrooms, locking myself outside the house, breaking locks, getting locked in bathrooms...
You get the idea...
In sum, I hate doors.

Doors

I hate em´.

The Art of Begging

In Montreal, the beggers can be somewhat passive ( or slightly agressive, such as in the case of the squeegee gang). This however, is not the case in Salamanca,Spain. Walking down the street in animated conversation, my friend J. and I were approached by some rather louche character, who proceeded to loudly shush us, ¨SHHHHHH¨ before rattling a large paper cup in our faces, and asking for money. A rather unusual technique.

Testosterone Relapse

A conversation from yesterday:

P: She's a lesbian.
Me: See, if I were a woman I wouldn't want to be with a very masculine woman.
P: If you were a woman?

One Week Anniversary

Today, I celebrate my one week anniversary of being a woman, hormonally speaking. I'm not announcing a sex change...yet. No, but in all seriousness, this past week has proved to be most tumultous, both physically and emotionally. Now, where crying is concerned, I can often get myself worked up and cry quite a bit, however this crying is usually more of an egotistically useful tactic ( used in order to stop my father from haranguing me about gym failures or diffusing my mother's breakdowns) than an authentic reaction to something sad. However, pumped with a generous amount of cyproterone and ethinyl ( which sounds suspiciously like ethanol) estradiol, it appears something wicked has possessed me, something that my father assured, even PROMISED me I would never ever have...Empathy.

I can say with (almost complete) candour, that this past week, I've been more prone to finding sad things sad, and bad things bad. Hormones have turned me into Doctor Seuss, apparently.

Fail Once, Shame On You, Fail Twice ...Then You're A Dumbass

I failed gym for the second time this semester. This is written with absolutely no pride. I am ashamed. After denial, I passed to anger, and after anger I passed to sadness, and after the sadness I passed to acceptance, and after the acceptance, I'm back at denial. Who fails gym twice?

As my father put it, " I will continue to support you, but will no longer have any emotional investment in you" Ouch.

This is where I have come up with a scholarship in my name, one which offers failures and flunk-outs the chance to get into good universities and FREE. The slogan, " FAIL YOUR WAY INTO COLLEGE!"

If only.

In other news, it appears that my brother is behind my lack of estrogen. He's stealing it all! He's growing little breasts!

Virility

Venetia, reclining on a chair, circa 2022

Patosa

Walking with my father the other day, a rather touchy subject came up, or rather I brought it up. In bringing up such a subject, I was hoping to evoke some kind of sympathy in my father ( which now reflecting was a high expectation to begin with, only proving just how desperate I was at the time of said event). Recently, I've been compared to a clown. This pains me deeply. I hate clowns. Beside the revoltingly seedy and offensive aesthetic ( which in itself would justify any contempt towards clowns), I find that clowns are fundamental hypocrites. Perhaps my clothing can border on TOO much at times, or perhaps I trip over my shoes once in a while, but really, am I that clownish? After hearing me out, my father paused thoughtfully, mulling the information over. I prepared myself to be consoled when he then said, " well yes, as the Spanish would say, you're quite the patosa, aren't you?"

You Know You're A Failure When...

...Your younger brother's philosophy teacher becomes your SAT math tutor and then after three sessions requests to end the tutoring sessions.

...On your younger brother's birthday you re-give your brother a gift that was initially given to you, a hardboiled egg painted red.

...You owe the public library $13.

...As an an anglophone in a class of English as a second language, your grade is below average.

...You manage to burn UN-COOKED muffins.

...After 3 months of frequenting the same depaunner and trying to establish a solid relationship with the bitter greek owner, she doesn't remember you, and you are depressed.

I Think Not...

For whatever reason, our room to sublet seems to attract a generous number of 50-70 year old male immigrants who can barely speak English, insist on haggling the price down and cannot for the life of them understand the concept that a roomshare does indeed imply living with roomates. Only yesterday, Ishmael, a somewhat surly fellow, telephoned...

Ishmael: Hello.

Me: Hello, who is this?

Ishmael: Call me Ishmael. ( Well no, he didn't really say that...but how great would that have been?!)

Me: Oh. Hi, you were interested in the apartment, right?

Long pause.

Ishmael: Yes.

Me: So, could you tell me a little bit about yourself?

Ishmael: I'm 73 years old. I am a boxing champion.

Me: Oh, well, that is impressive but I think my roommates would prefer to live with other students...

Ishmael: I am a student. A phd student.

Me: Oh, I see...

Ishmael: Can I come see apartment now?

Me: Well, why don't you talk to my roommate first...

Feeling rather selfish for keeping so delightful a conversation between myself and Ishmael, here is where I gave this somewhat suspicious character the home phone number, so that my roommate too could partake in the joy.

Weren't You Just Dying To Know?

Found on the street. Now, who could throw away something so precious?

And Then I Quit

DAY 1

Boss: Do you smoke THE MARIJUANNAAAAAAAAAAAA?!

Is this a trick question?

Me: Occasionally, I guess.

My boss approaches me and shoves a huge bowl of green spices underneath my nose. I cringe, and he cackles wildly, returning to the stove where he resumes his favorite song of which the unique lyrics are " LA LA LA LA LA."

After having finished washing the dishes.

Me: What do I do now?

Boss: Dance!

Me: I can't dance.

Boss: Then sing!

Me: I can't sing!

Boss: Then what can you do?


After spilling water on the floor.

Boss: DON'T WORRY. BE HAPPY.

DAY 2

Boss: How many boyfriends you have?

Me: You mean right now? One. How many wives do you have--

Boss: NO NO. Not right now, in your life!

Boss: You know which ones are the samosas?

Me: Yes. ( points to samosa case)

Boss: Good girl!

Slaps my ass.

DAY 3 ( non-working day)

I open my cellphone and I have two new voicemails. Both are from work. My boss wants me to work tonight, as I already told him yesterday I can't work tonight.

I call back.

Me: Hi, it's Venetia.

Boss: Hi Netia. Why you don't pick up your phone?!

Me: I was at a play, I had to turn off my phone.

Boss: Why!? You working tonight at 6:30!?

Me: No, I told you I can't, I have a huge exam tomorrow.

Boss: OK OK. BYE.

The Bane of My Night Part II

My mother passes by the door frame. I call out, in desperation.
"Mom!"
She enters, perplexed.
I beckon her towards the bed.
" Do you hear that?" I demand with haggard eyes.
" Hear what?"
" THAT SOUND SEBASTIAN IS MAKING."
Of course, even in his sleep, Sebastian must spite me. The heavy breathing has transformed itself into something barely audible.
I insist, " Imagine that, but AMPLIFIED!"
" SHHHH! He has school tomorrow!"
I reach out for my mother's arm, and miss, instead grabbing her breast.
For the first time that night, it would be silent.

Fuck my night.

The Bane of My Night ( not to mention my existence)

For reasons beyond comprehension, for the first time in a long time, I am sharing a room with my younger brother.
I'm contemplating killing him.
In a state of profound slumber, a strange expression of pain drawn out across his face like some grotesque mask, he wheezes with every breath he takes. After many telepathic attempts at silencing him, I finally resort to pressing one ear against the mattress while covering the other with a pillow, I cry out, "STOP!" And he does, momentarily. However his heavy constipated breathing is now replaced by strange vocalizations recalling either demonic possession or mongolian throat singing.
Do not be deceived by this angelic picture, as his unconscious cries prove, the devil resides within him.

My English Teacher is English from England.

My life is complete.

My Hero.

Babies