Ireland

No one knows when our exams are, just that they will not be before May 14th or after June 2nd. No one knows where they will be. How do I hand in these essays if the office is closed? No one knows when the thesis is even due. Is it the end of July or the middle of August? Websites disagree with professors disagree with administration disagrees with basic logic.

I've had an epiphany, and I've written it out Rosie-style in honor of her departure from The View.

So i bought toaster waffles
because id been craving them 4 a while
and the picture on the box, it looked really good
i bring em home stick em in the toaster
make some homemade syrup from brown sugar and a little butter
take em out all golden brown
dip a bite in my syrup
and GAG
why?
because they r POTATO WAFFLES

And it strikes me this is an apt analogy for my time here in Ireland. The toaster waffle called life sucks when I create a vision of what should happen, but when I free my brain of expectation and my entitlement to, you know, ever know what's going on here, I get a giant waffle-shaped french fry. And it's pretty finger-lickin'.

A mother's wisdom

On manboy:

Karen Farris 4/26/07 11:39 PM
i don't think he would murder anyone
4/26/07 11:39 PM
i think he might ask to see their boobs
Jessica Farris 4/26/07 11:39 PM
well
Karen Farris 4/26/07 11:39 PM
but not murder

Peace reads.

I love



all four books



from these lovebirds





so much that I re-read them even when I have a million books in waiting on my required/desired list and it's 4 AM.

Room number 4, or The Black Curtain of Glenomena.

Today is Glenomena check-up day, which means a man comes around to all the rooms in the building and checks that you haven't trashed yours Van Halen-style. Welllll, when the dude checked on funky manboy's room next door he asked that my flatmate David and I stand guard whilst he finish the check because he was quaking with fright. Why?

1. The stench.
2. The long, handmade, black curtain behind the door.
3. The bed with no duvet, sheets or pillow. Simple mattress. Deadly simple.
4. and most quake-worthy, Fun.Man. has a postcard menagerie of porn meticuously lining the entire room. His room is seriously an OCD shrine to all things smutty and stereotypically psychopathic.

I was okay when he lined up 6 pair of hamburger buns with one sheet of lettuce, and one squirt of ketchup for his 6 SIX! hamburgers. I was okay when he microvaved a bowl containing three cans of tuna and five baby potatoes. I almost threw up but I was was still okay. Now I am not okay, though, when I think of where all that caloric energy is going. Perhaps into the sheets that are NOT on his bed. I used to think he was maybe R rated crazy-- grunting, pounding on the wall, and then giggling and screaming profanities, but now these annoyances seem so much more. And "much more" = the X-rated results of what must be constant and rampant manboy onanism.

I want to tear my brain out and soak it in Clorox.

I also want to move.

I forgot I had a blog.

So. It's been a while. Here are some things I've done while not updating.

I've prepared an Easter dinner. Do you see those two loaves of bread back there? I made them. Hells yeah. One is coconut and dried fruit and the other is jalepeno and cheddar cheese. Sean and I also made meatballs in wine sauce, green bean casserole, stuffing, sweet potato mash, etc. I made that tub of butter from the milk of an Irish cow, and also whipped up that Mac computer. Domesticity!


I've read my fancy ass off. I think there are only three books I haven't read and those are the ones just sent to the publisher this minute. Other than those three, I've read every book ever written and am now in the process of writing essays on/ being tested on/ writing a thesis on them. I love it, except that I hate it.


I've stared at the gay mallards that sleep right outside my building's door, Fergus and Ron McGimpsey.


I've beaten a path into the ground on my way to the market.


I've written a note to my 39-year-old manboy of a flatmate who grunts, pounds on the wall, screams "motherfu--er!" and then giggles like a Victorian lady. E v e r y s i n g l e n i g h t n o w. He never answers his door and doesn't respond to knocks on the wall because I guess he loves getting letters. I wrote this after a hanging picture fell on my face.


I've received bullshit answers to my letters.


I've gone to 80's parties where the only shot of Sean cuts out his kickin' lime green sweatband.


I've stepped out and explored. I have no idea, seriously none, why they say the weather here is bad. The trees are blooming, the palms are swaying, the breeze blows cool from the ocean and the sun is freckling everyone's noses.


Hard to believe it's almost over.