Don't get too hopeful

My sister is desperate for new reading material. This is evidenced by a series of gmail chats we’ve had together, where she’s got the unusual talent of starting an interesting turn of a conversation right when I have to leave, and right when she has to go to the bathroom.

Today, I also happened to talk to Rory Kelly, which went something like:

Me: Hello! How are you?

Rory (after a significant pause): Hello! How are you?

Me: I’m in Hungary. With my grandma. I have to go pee.

Rory: Oooooookkkkkkkkk.

Rory: I have to go to school.

(I hate it when people say “ok” on the internet. Hence my disappearance from aim for the summers. I just need to take a break from people making me feel awkward on purpose. “ooooooooooookkkkkkkkkkkk.” God. It’s like each o and k stands for something, like “obviously out of our orbit, kompletely kooky krazy karacter.”)

So you can see that I have been significantly less coherent with people than I have been on this blog, despite the draught that’s been going on here on this semi-website.

I have been in Hungary, where there is also a series of protests going on, which Diana and I went to see today. Who is Diana, you ask? She will be my roommate in Rome. This makes her the…12^th roommate in the series of roommates I’ve had since entering college. This is not counting bed mites, ghosts, or cockroaches.

There are these political protests going on in Hungary, which, if you were in Hungary, would be a big deal, but since you’re not, might seem to be as important as an old lady in Uzbekistan running out of curry last night. I’ve been getting the weird sensation that all these occurrences that have been happening since I’ve been going to countries more or less on my own happen because the people want me out. Take for instance the soccer victory in Rome. I barely got out of that alive. I stepped in a mud puddle with such suction power that I thought I was in a quicksand trap in the middle of the Sahara. And last year with the approval of gay marriage in Spain, I was puttied into a nearly jellied form of some sort of an extraterrestrial being reeking of booze and boys when I dared to venture into a square where people were celebrating. My clothes reeked so badly, in fact, that 6 weeks later, after I had washed said clothes, my mother smelled them, wrinkled her nose, and said "Now really, Adrianne."

Then, more recently when I was in Menorca my last week, as I was languidly wandering the streets, trying to decide if the sky was bluer than the day before, a large, robust man bellowed into my ear, nearly catapulting me across the street, shouting:

“Campioooooooooooones, campiooooooooooooones…,” because, evidently, Spain had won some sort of a basketball match.

Who woulda thunk.

But I’ve got news for Europe AND for you.

I am not leaving this place OR this blog. So deal with it.

And now I’m going to bed.