I know somewhere deep inside of me I am excited for everything I am doing this weekend, I just need a nap.

I hate to say it, but I was really bored watching the royal wedding.

My thoughts on MFA programs: Oh look, they offer reading and writing, I love reading and writing, this is obviously the right program for me.

Repeat times 1 million.

Speaking of writing, here's the next section of the story I am working on. I realize the pets are similarly named to pets I have had, but this is still a complete work of fiction besides the addition of Caramel.

Here's sections one, two, three, and four

When I was nine my parents allowed me to purchase two gerbils. Gerbils tend to be bigger than mice, but smaller than rats. I’ve heard people call them mean. My first pet was a goldfish that was given to me by a friend for my fifth birthday. I gave it a lot of food, so that it would not be hungry. I found it the next day floating on its side in the bowl. I later learned that fish do not have a mechanism to signal that they are full, they just continue eating until their stomach explodes or whatever happens after excess consumption. I did not obtain another pet until several years later when I bought my gerbils, Chocolate Brownie and Brownie, which I named as such because they were brown and I thought animals ought to be named after foods they were similarly colored to, hence the later naming of my golden retriever, Caramel.

I don’t know how long I had Chocolate Brownie and Brownie for. Their existence does not stand out in my memories except for the day that I peered into their cage to find Chocolate Brownie picking meat off the exposed ribcage of the dead Brownie. I proceeded to scream in a manner which is rarely done sincerely, causing my parents to rush to my room and haul off the cage with the offending animal inside. I don’t recall what happened to Chocolate Brownie after this, only that several years later my younger brother took up his own interest in rodents and purchased two mice, one of whom routinely killed his cage mates. My father released this mouse into the backyard, chuckling over its future amongst the squirrels and cats that roamed the neighborhood.

Freshman year I got two fish. One, large and golden which I named Kant and the other black and verbose named Nietzsche. I kept their bowl next to my bed and spent a good amount of time staring into their bowl and worrying about them unnecessarily when I spent the night in my boyfriend’s room and calling my roommate to make sure they were fed. On the way home for winter break, Kant started swimming very slowly in the plastic bag I had placed him in for the journey. He died the next day, the shock of being returned to his bowl killing him almost instantly. Nietzche survived the break, but when he finally passed it was with slow painful observance as I was packing to return to school. It was as if he somehow sensed the upcoming journey and was simply refusing to go. Like his bowl mate, his swimming started to become lethargic and every so often he would turn onto his side. I tried to nurture him back to health by peering into the bowl as often as I could, which about all anyone can do in the death of a fish, but nothing worked and the next morning when I fetched the little green net to fish his body out of the bowl and into the bag, he was very nearly passed and I spent the car ride tearful as his body limply floated to the surface. 

Looking at MFA programs. I have slowly been building up my tolerance against the waves of nausea that fill me every time I try to do research. Whenever I tell people that they seem slightly baffled as to why I am applying. I don't feel sick because I don't want to do it, I feel sick because I want it so bad. It's like how you felt sick before telling your crush that you liked them in Jr. High and then the crushed awful feeling afterwards is how I will feel if I don't get accepted. I am going to try not to get too attached to any one program and focus on general feels I want from programs and apply to a good number of them. Funding is important though. Funding is really important.

I am looking up plane flights for June 1st. I probably won't book one, but it makes me feel better.

In Slovenia, they have graffiti with my name on it, which causes me to grin absurdly.  

I haven't had a conversation out loud since Friday. I don't think I've ever gone this long without talking to another human being. Last night I had another atrocious crying dream, but even worse. I am not going to describe it. The dreams of other people are  never interesting.

This is a beautiful picture of Robin Metz.

Here's the next section of the story I am working on. It'll probably still make sense if you don't read the other sections. I'm not really one of those people who uses plot.

Here are links to sections one, two, and three.

 “I tried to kill myself when I was sixteen.”

            We are in the alley behind the bar. The ground is littered with cigarettes. We add to the pile, making statues out of ash.

            “I told myself if I didn’t have a girlfriend by my sixteenth birthday, I would do it.”

            Paul in the basement. Paul with a razorblade in hand, a belt, a gun. Maybe a pile of pills with the indicative empty orange bottle lying open on the floor.

            “My parents came home. I had the belt in my hand and I was putting the chair into position and my fucking parents came home. I couldn’t stand the thought of them finding me. That’s why I didn’t do it.” He pauses, smokes his cigarette. I’ve already finished two. My pack is almost empty. I take out another one. My stomach will hurt later. I will wake up smelling like cigarettes and want to vomit.

            “Adam noticed your wrists first,” he says.

            I smile. “That’s just how my arms look,” I say. I used to not inhale when I smoked, but I like the dizzy feeling it gives me.

            Paul climbing off his chair. Paul curling up in his bed in what he imagines to be a melancholic position, but actually looks pathetic, the fat of his stomach drooping onto his bed. Some people have a penchant for devotion. Paul is one of them. He likes to pledge to things, his parents, god, his fraternity, beer. He gets tattoos without wondering if he will regret them. He has already devoted himself to the ink.

            He confides in me because he thinks I understand the deep and heavy depression that he felt that day in his room and maybe still feels twinges of on bad days. The undying need of the depressed person to try to explain, make even just one other human being understand the unimaginable depth of what they felt. He’s not depressed now though, even if I sort of want him to be. His chatter is reminiscent and solemn. The way people who were formerly poor talk about starving as if it were beautiful.

 “I got a girlfriend a few months later,” he says. “I loved her and it was stupid. She broke up with me sophomore year. I guess I knew it was coming. We were going to get married. I proposed to her in the back of a car.”

The only time I’ve had sex in a car, it was a two door. We had to climb into the backseat. It was purposeful. Everyone knew what we were going back there for.

“I was with someone for a long time,” I tell him. “I didn’t break up with him because I didn’t love him. I broke up with him because I needed to be by myself. I can’t even remember who I was when we were together. I feel like I am a totally different person now, though I am probably exactly the same.”

He is not listening. He is thinking about his girlfriend. When we get into bed later that night he tells me, “I don’t want to hear about your ex-boyfriends.”

In drawing class we work on drawing spheres. We pin giant pieces of paper to the wall and draw long ovals.

“No footballs,” the teacher says as she walks around the room.

I am fairly certain I have drawn a stack of footballs. I want to go back to naked bodies. The teacher walks by my charcoal covered paper and tells me I am drawing footballs. We had a homework assignment to do reproduction of a Matisse self-portrait. I spent hours in the drawing studio drawing to reproduce his face with the same smudges. When she hands the drawing back to me, it has good job written in pencil in the corner. I am better at this, reproductions. As a child when hand a sheet of paper and a pencil I would always draw tornados. Giants tornados so full of swirling wind there was no room left for houses. I liked to draw tornados because  I felt my drawings were an accurate representation of reality. I liked doing this; reproducing reality as if simply having reality were not enough and I needed to create it again and again.

The professor says coming to the Midwest did something different to her art. She did not know something could be so flat and continue for seemingly forever until she moved here. She tried to depict this in watercolors. I think her paintings are boring. There is something reminiscent of elementary school gym class in these footballs stacked upon one another. 

I finished The Pale King. One of the more satisfying parts of reading is finishing what you are reading. For instance there is a section of The Pale King where he describes how his father mows the lawn in sections. He never understood why his father did this until he realized his father found satisfaction in finishing things and that if he mowed the lawn in sections then he could have the finished feeling fourteen times, versus once. The problem with a novel is that unlike a lawn, once a novel is done, it does not grow again.

I'm sorry I sound so bummed today. If you would just read The Pale King, you would understand the horrible consequences of boredom.

I am downloading two television shows so that I will have something to do on Easter.

I feel sad because writing feels fruitless and the thought of going home and writing sounds so terribly painful to me. If I still had my house this would be better. I really loved my house.

I like this poem and the picture on it.

They ate all of those hamburgers.

I really like this post about how it's okay to like things other people like.

I feel like crying.

Whoa, a table of four just ordered 12 hamburgers.

I've been having a reoccurring  dream where I sit and cry over my mom's house. I don't cry when I'm awake. Just when I'm sleeping.

My ankle has collapsed twice in the past two days and I have fallen to the ground.

I can see a man wearing leather pants.

Walking to the grocery store today I saw a man wearing short shorts with skinny little legs and a giant beer belly hanging over his shorts.

I have four days to spend alone in Freistadt. Four days and I am having dreams where I sit and cry.

I ordered an iced chai and this is what I got:

Cesky Krumlov is pretty cool. They have a nice castle with a bear moat. What is a bear moat? A moat with bears in it. Also I went on the Eggenberg brewery tour and drank a liter of beer for lunch and got sort of drunk and took a nice nap.

I can't stop thinking about all the hipsters in Ljubljana. I am not cool enough to live there.

Based off who is online in the US right now, I would say that real jobs seem to include spending a lot of time on the internet. Also I tried really hard to take a picture of myself without anyone seeing what I was doing, but I think they still did.

Here is the next section of the story I have been working on. The first section can be found here and the second section found here. 

Once while shopping I saw an old woman with hair so thin it was showing through her scalp. She wore a giant ragged jean jacket and her purse was held together with mailing tape. Her shoes were wooden and painted, the paint wearing down to show the raw wood. I imagined that she smelled like excrement: the smell of homelessness. It would have been less offensive if the woman had sat down on the floor and held out a paper cup for us to drop money in. I might have forsaken a dime for her happiness or presumed drug addiction, but instead she was looking through the clothes, holding up little black party dresses with sequins sewn into the hems, checking the sizes to make sure they were the right one, mumbling her opinion of the garments to herself as if she were shopping with a friend. Everyone in the store looked at the woman, but no one said anything.  The woman seemed unaware that people were staring at her or perhaps she was and that was why she was talking. After running into her in three different stores, I told my friends I wanted to leave. I was tired of shopping. I didn’t want to spend any more money.

It wasn’t about the woman. She wasn’t hurting anything. Baldness was not catching, but hereditary and when there was a hole in my purse, I bought a new one.

Where the man died, the street looks the same. When I was eight lightning struck the sidewalk a block from my house and left scorched circles that remain years later. I grew up convinced that someone had died in my house and I could feel their presence. I was never scared of the dark until we moved and there seemed to be no plausible explanation for a five year old to inexplicably become afraid of the dark besides a ghostly apparition.

I want some sort of bloody remains on the sidewalk, though the death was not bloody. The outline of a body. This is where he fell. One of those crosses that are hung on the scene of car accidents.

The last time I smoked weed it was wintertime. I had drunk a lot of wine and was wearing a skirt. I walked to a friend’s apartment in a dingy old college apartment building that was painted yellow. It was called “Yellows.” It could be seen from several blocks away. The stairs creaked when walked upon and there was the constant scent of pot leaking from under doorways. At times, the entire building seemed to threaten collapse.

“Do you want to go build a snow fort?”

“Yes. It’s cold.”

I had no gloves, so I borrowed some and they were too big for my hands. I also borrowed a sweatshirt which I put under my black peacoat.

They had built a giant wooden cross and attached pieces of garbage to it and left it leaning against one of the academic buildings on campus.

“We are going to hang this to the tree. We found rope and everything.” She grinned.

Alex pulled out a pipe. We sat on the ground smoking. I didn’t feel high or drunk. I felt cold. I wanted music. We carried snow with our hands and added it to the already large pile they collected around a tree. Building the roof was difficult. Snow kept falling into the shelter. I can’t say how long we were out there, but my hands had turned pink. We smoked again and decided it was time to hang up the cross. They attached the rope to the cross and we swung the rope over the tree and tied the loose end to the trunk. I stood there like I was helping, but I wasn’t. We lay down in our snowy enclosure. Alex and Becky were spooning. I felt intrusive, but I didn’t know how to leave. I wanted to make a snow angel, but I didn’t know how to do that either. I started talking about boys. Alex and Becky weren’t listening to me. They were kissing. The cross swung about in the wind, the pop can hanging it making clanging noises. I thought about hypothermia and how you know you are really sick once you start feeling warm again. My limbs were creaky as I stood up.

“I’m going to walk home.”

The sky seemed tall and not at all roof like on the way home, crossing the tundra at 3 in the morning.

I put on music and lay down in bed. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I was shaking from the cold and had to get in the shower where the water burned. 

I'm going to move to Ljubljana. All the pictures are stolen from Maija or William. 

We had to stand on the first train. The ticket guy laughed at us and said, "You should've made reservations."

On the second train they made us get off at a random town in Slovenia and get on a very crowded bus with a baby who made noises like a bird. It was okay though because William brought doppel kekse.

We walked by this building in Ljublana a lot. It has naked people on it. Matija the hostel worker told us he designed it for the men of the city to have something to look at. 

The ground had faces on it. 

All the statues in Ljubljana looked like they were fighting their way out of the stone. We don't know where that green light is coming from. 

Ljubljana was actually very nice and classy, except for this one alley which is clearly representative of it's communist days. 

A dragon tried to eat William and I.

We ate the biggest pizza ever. Our waitress spoke no English, but she laughed at us a lot. She was probably saying something like, "The fat Americans ate the whole pizza!"

Slovenia wine is the best. Also olives and cheese. This is where we met our best friend Bobby. 

Ljubljana is unexpectedly beautiful and amazing. Yesterday we saw three people walking in skinny skinny jeans with bowl haircuts on top of partially shaved heads,carrying an umbrella as an accessory and also because it was going to rain. We ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant and I had a mojito and wished there were five more. We walked around the city with rain threatening, looking at the buildings, all of which had strange art. Then, exhausted due to long travels, we went to a wine bar and were very refined and classy.

I have decided that most things in life really are a reflection of the movie "Labyrinth." For instance: the layout of Venice, te castle in Prague, the name Ljubljana.

Things happening today:
Pay day! This is really super because I currently only have 5 euros.
Easter break starts! Yes, in Austria they are actually allowed to call it Easter break and not spring break and it always falls on Easter.
Two months from two I go home! Don't get me wrong, I love Austria, but I also love being at home. 

I thought it was stupid and cliche when people said they did not enter relationships for fear of getting hurt until I started doing this. Let me rephrase, I refrained from hooking up with people for fear of getting hurt. It surprised me in return that doing this was also a hurtful act.

Because it's Thursday and I said I would post writing on Thursday, here is the next section of the story I started here.

He tells me I am pretty a lot. I have nice breasts and a nice vagina. I wish he would use the word cunt. When he asks me to do things during the day, I say no, even though I’m not busy, so that when he asks to come over later and I hesitantly say yes and we fuck, he feels like he has conquered something.

I open the door in flowered shorts and a wife beater and he tells me I look hot and he can see my nipples through the fabric. I don’t say anything about his body.

In the morning I go to drawing class. I don’t tell anyone in my drawing class about the boy I am fucking. I don’t tell anyone in my drawing class that I saw a man die. I don’t tell anyone in my drawing class anything.

We started by drawing shapes. Then we drew popcorn. Now we are drawing naked people. I don’t think about fucking when I am in drawing class. Normally when I am having sex with someone I think about sex all day. I don’t know what it means that I don’t think about Paul that way.

I keep my charcoal in a box I took from my grandpa’s apartment in the retirement complex after he died. The inside of the box is slowly turning black. The drawing teacher tells me I am too careful a lot.

I take notes about bodies. The way that some girls shave their crotch and other girls don’t and the hair is long and curly and colored differently from the hair on their heads. Some girls have breasts that swing long and low like pendulums and dark brown nipples. The models are almost always female: boys don’t know what to do with their bodies.

When we are lying in bed together Paul asks me what I like best about his body. I don’t tell him that I like the way that he is fat and when he spoons me, I feel like I am in a cocoon. Instead I tell him I like the way his dick feels when he’s inside me.

During critique the teacher says my drawings are too pretty, I need to make something ugly. She likes the warped perspective achieved by the boys with no drawing skills, the massive thighs, overpowering hips.

I think of the Picasso I saw in Amsterdam, Nude Woman with Cats. I have never much liked Picasso, but as I stared at this painting I wondered how he could have rendered me so accurately. Though at the moment I had no cats, it was my body in the picture. The same drooping stomach, disproportioned legs, the twisted lonely smile of someone watching television like it is life. By most standards, Picasso was a pervert, but he was not different from any man I had ever met. He slept with women and then took their bodies and made them in a new shape.

Paul asks me what positions I like and I tell him the positions he wants me to be in. I don’t say anything when my legs hurt or about the bruises developing on my thighs. He leaves a big hickey on my neck and I complain about it, but I don’t do anything to cover it during the day. 

You should probably go here and read Chad Simpson's short stories because they are very enjoyable.

Someone just spoke to me in German and I have no idea what he said. I just said, "Ja," and kept typing. This afternoon I read a lot of American Psycho and then had dreams about sex and serial killers. The book makes me flinch and cringe. One of the teachers asked if I liked thrillers when I told him what I was reading and I tried to explain to him that it's not really a thriller. It's commentary about America. What's not commentary about America? 

It sucks to hear that you've hurt someone. It's much easier to perceive of yourself as the victim. 

I'm really broke, but it's payday tomorrow and I got a free macchiato today, so I'm not really as glum as I look. 

So it's like I sit around thinking, "Who the fuck do I want to talk to?" and I realize that this longing in me is for people that no longer exist the way that I want them to and thus it is pointless.

I miss everybody. I always miss everybody though.

Writing makes me feel so fucking insufficient. Fuck.

Praha

This is Sharky. He is a stuff animal shark Blair brought to Prague. This is Sharky on the bridge. 

This is Sharky swimming in the river. He is obviously swimming. 

This is Sharky riding a horse. 

This is Blair and I. Sharky did not want to come out. He was too tired from all his activities and did not want to go to the five story club. 

Everything is going to be okay.

I am reading American Psycho. It's okay, but really I just want to be reading David Foster Wallace. I am obsessed. I could sit on the internet all day and read articles about him. The Pale King comes out on Friday. I am tempted to pre-order it. Anyone else feeling the Wallace love?

I am posting writing today and not Thursday, but it's something. I am trying to add on, but it's not really about anything. Then again, nothing I write is about anything. Sorry blogger fucks with formatting. 

I saw a man die today.

            He was collapsed on the street outside of my house. No one knew how long he’d been there, but when I went outside to go to work, I found him there, lying on the pavement, gasping for breath.

I have never seen a man die on any other day of my life. Not even when my grandfather was in the hospital with pneumonia — as a child, I always thought it was pronounced pee-neumonia—with a thing over his mouth to help him breathe. All he kept asking me was what I wanted for Christmas and I wanted to say, “Grandpa, don’t you know you’re dying,” like they hadn’t told him yet, but certainly they had if we knew.

But that man on the pavement, he died. After I found him, I ran to the apartment next to mine, banged on their door until they came out, and called 911.

They saw a man die today too. This was my fault. They might have not seen a man die if I had not knocked on their door, but I did knock on their door because I figured the only thing worse than seeing a man die was seeing a man die alone, so I selfishly brought other people along.

Eventually he stopped gasping for air and we had to keep checking his pulse to make sure he was still alive. The ambulance came. I didn’t go inside. The only time I have been inside an ambulance was when I was a teenager. There was nothing wrong with me. I suppose there was something wrong with me, but the ambulance didn’t help anything. I wasn’t sick like that, on the outside. One of the men on the ambulance told me about his son. I could tell he was thinking about his son and how glad he was that his son wasn’t riding in an ambulance because there was something wrong with him.

This man didn’t really need an ambulance either because by the time they got there he was dead. They gave him a shock to the chest and he didn’t wake up and the ambulance men did not say, “Come on, wake up,” like they do in the movies. He might have woken up if they had done that, but they didn’t do that and he didn’t wake up and they put him in the ambulance anyway. No one told us what his name was or what he was doing on our street to begin with. We figured he must have been going for a walk. That happens sometimes, people go for a walk and then they fall on the street and die. It must happen sometimes because I saw it happen today.

I tell all this to my friends that I see at the bar. They are shocked and surprised and drink a lot of beer so they don’t have to say anything. When I go to restaurants, I do the same: drink a lot of water when I have nothing to add to the conversation. I usually get over hydrated and then have to use the bathroom a lot. This is not a problem I think people should have.

One of my friend’s repeats, “You saw a man die,” over and over again as if she thinks it will help or maybe it’s how she processes. This is what school teaches us: if you read the same paragraph repeatedly eventually you will digest the information.

We go outside and smoke cigarettes. I don’t know anyone who says they smoke cigarettes, but most of the people I know do. Outside we meet some townies. They say, “Hey, aren’t you really green over there at college. We’re green too, we cut down trees and kill animals, we love spending time outside.” They offer to let me drive their hummer, but say, I can only do it naked. I decline, tell them I’ve had too much beer. “We’ve had beer too,” they laugh. They get in their hummer and drive away.

One of the boys at the table likes me. He uses the line: I’m sorry if I seem nervous around you, you are just so pretty. He is fat. He likes to smoke a lot of cigarettes, but says, “I am not a smoker, I am quitting.” He also used to do a lot of cocaine. He still wants to do cocaine. I know this because he talks about how he doesn’t do cocaine anymore all the time. It’s like how I talk about drinking a lot while sober, but I still drink most nights.

We kissed once before, but I stopped him because he was fat. I don’t like to tell people that’s the reason, so I say something like, “We stopped because I was uncertain.” My first kiss was a dare when I was fourteen. Afterwards the boy said, “That was gross.” I don’t tell anyone this either.

When we leave the bar the boy walks me back to my apartment. We sit outside chain smoking cigarettes.

“We should go inside,” he says.

“No, I just want to stay out here.”

If I stay outside long enough perhaps another man will collapse down dead on the sidewalk. There is probably some statistic about the likelihood of randomly seeing a man die on the street compared to the likelihood of being hit by lightening. Those statistics always lead me to believe that many people get hit by lightening since it is more likely than most things.

When we finally go inside I let him kiss me. I might have kissed him first. I am never certain about these things. He leads me to the couch and then to my bedroom. I’ve never suggested that we go to the bedroom with anyone before, yet somehow we always end up there. I always thought that I don’t bend to peer pressure, but only because there has never been any pressure there, just peers and suggestions. I like to call myself agreeable.

We have sex after he tells me we don’t have to if I don’t want to. I don’t say anything. After it’s over I tell him, “I saw a man die today.”

“I know,” he says, then he falls asleep. This is what boys do after sex. 

I realized on the bus that I still think we will talk again.

"People don't want to be thought of as sentimental. Writers don't anyway."

As a horrifyingly sentimental person I find this to be true. I am constantly fighting my urges towards the sentimental when I write. I am constantly fighting everything about myself why I write and maybe that's why the process is so painful.

Trip home yesterday:
Realized at 12:45 that my train was at 1:16 and not 3:16 and was frustrated by military time and got crabby about everything.
Ran (as much as one can run on the metro) back to my hostel and discovered that there was also a train at 3:16.
Started feeling outrageously sick as I left for said train. Almost threw up in Prague metro.
Caught train. Fell asleep for an hour (I forgot to preface I only got three hours of sleep the night before and it was very cold, unpleasant sleep). Couple in the comparment with me kept kissing. My stomach kept making angry noises. I think the absinthe burned a hole in it.
Got to Budweis. Luckily caught my train that was leaving in three minutes. A Chinese guy that lives in Linz was in my compartment and we talked a little.
Got on a bus in Summerau. The bus drove right through Freistadt. I'm pretty sure if I had asked the driver to stop in Freistadt he would've, but I didn't because the OBB website said it was supposed to stop in Freistadt and I don't know how these things work. I've noticed the trains are very easy for foreigners to use, but the buses are much more difficult and they often don't announce stops and just expect people to know where to get off.
Got to Linz a little past eight. Ate two knoblauch strangerls. I'm pretty sure I am spelling that wrong, but basically they are like garlicy breadsticks.
Caught the 27 bus to Chemiepark. I have never been to Chemiepark before, but many buses go there including the only bus to Freistadt after 7:45 on Sundays. From what I can gather Chemiepark is a heavily guarded office area that must have something to do with chemicals. I had an hour and a half wait for my bus so I walked around a little bit and there was nothing, literally nothing. Only office buildings.
Sat inside the bus station for a million hours. A bunch of men showed up with a crate of beer and drank while they waited for their buses and kept looking at me and I was worried I was going to get raped and die, but no one actually talked to me or came near me so it was fine.
Finally at 9:58 my bus came, but it wasn't the normal OBB Postbus so it was very confusing, but the driver charged me the under 21 price and it was much faster than the normal OBB bus so I can't complain too much.
Got off the bus and walked the 10 minutes home. Arrived home at 11:00 completely exhausted. Collapsed into bed.
This was one of the most difficult traveling experiences I've had. Who knew getting to Prague and coming back were so difficult?

I missed the train I wanted to take and now I am upset about everything.

Also last night I tried absinthe and got three hours of sleep.

Danny sort of lost his job. Everything I was clinging to is gone. I don't know where I am living in June. Thank god I get to see Blair very shortly. I can complain to her and she will tell me it sounds like a personal problem and then we will get drunk. I am trying really hard not to dislike everything.

I am terrified of missing my train to Prague. Because of this I am going to take the bus that gets to Summerau at 12:20 instead of 2:19. My train leaves at 14:36. I get to spend two hours in Summerau before I have even left. I don't even know where Summerau is except that it is a twenty minute bus ride from Freistadt. My current plan is to find a grocery store and buy food for the train ride. It has occurred to me that the Summerau station may be in the middle of nowhere like the Freistadt station and then I will just be really bored and try to read Pride and Prejudice, but will probably end up playing Number Slide or the Kindle version of Text Twist.

I love Krista. She is so supportive.

[11:27:13 AM] Tasha: Prague is going to be great
[11:27:20 AM] Blair: don't we get a free "welcome drink"
[11:27:23 AM] Tasha: even if I am broke we can stay in the hostel all day
[11:27:25 AM] Tasha: and drink and swim
[11:27:27 AM] Tasha: in that order
[11:27:30 AM] Blair: yeahhhhhh
[11:27:35 AM] Blair: and then go out all night
[11:27:37 AM] Tasha: yes
[11:27:41 AM] Tasha: we should pregame very well
[11:27:44 AM] Tasha: so we don't have to buy alcohol
[11:27:44 AM] Blair: and be slutty so guys buy us drinks
[11:27:46 AM] Tasha: in bars
[11:27:48 AM] Tasha: yes!!!!!!!
[11:27:59 AM] Blair: omg
[11:28:02 AM] Blair: i am so excited
[11:28:02 AM] Blair: there are no words

The hostel Blair and I are staying in this weekend has a pool and a sauna and a "girls room" (we are not quite sure what this is).

I miss everybody in the whole world. I especially miss some people. These people probably don't know how much I miss them and I will not tell them.

Nightmares I remember having last night: dreamt I woke up and lots of teenagers were having a party in my building and I got up to lock the door. Realized I was asleep and still thought there was a party but felt paralyzed
I finally saw my cat again and it was a different cat.
Had a confrontation with my mom.

I also overslept by an hour. I did not miss any classs though. I feel shitty.

Whenever I wear innappropriate shoes it rains. Apparently my feet control the weather.

Just kidding. I'm going to take the bus to Linz and go to Prague from there. Did I mention I'm going to Prague with Blair on Thursday? I am so happy I get to see Blair.

Today is the day that I am going to find the Freistadt trainstation.

I started writing a really long letter and can't send it. I don't understand why sometimes I just feel this desperate need to talk to certain people. It's so much easier in the US where I can just send stupid drunk texts messages to people instead of writing stupid long letters to them that I will never ever send because they are so much more confessional than a text message will ever be.

On Sundays I always feel kind of medium. I care about fewer things than I do all the other days. Being hungover is not the worst thing.

Sometimes I get the horrible feeling that people (boys) are ignoring me, which is ridiculous a continent away.

But with boys this is normally the case. It`s a logical process really.

The idea of a relaxing Friday sounds horrible right now. I just want to work work work and forget about things.