Sing-alongs and ringie things.

Well there's no build-up that can justify this, so here it is-

I am getting engaged. Or rather, WE are getting engaged.

Been dancing around the house all day humming "For I'm getting engaged, I" to the tune of "He's a jolly good Fellow." Lonely business this. So as soon as Andreas comes home, I'll change the "I" to "We" and we'll have this sing-along thing going on. That way, the step to "My Fair lady" tunes will then seem more natural, and it won't take weeks again for his ball sack to drop back out.

They say that having a ring on your finger doesn't really change the way you feel about each other, but it does. Or maybe it's just that I feel more and more passionate about Andreas every day - but for a good reason. He's the type of human who should be mass-produced and shipped to Paraguay. But right now, the only place he's going is out with me, to a resutaurant, the name of which he has yet to reveal.

Hopefully it will be a tad classier than the establishment below.



- Proud suppliers of venereal diseases since 1992.

Vaginal prolapse? No sweat!

And so begins a new term, filled with new papers, new teachers, new classmates. Or so I thought.

At registration, you got to say which teacher you'd like for the group seminars. Seeing as how I might not be the best lecturer-goer, the only name that rung a bell was a Paul. So I said "Paul!". So the registrations organiser said "Yes!" so I said "Yes." Until it struck me who this Paul was. Wasn't this the Paul in whose poetry class I'd been already? Highly possible. Didn't I hand in poems to him about carrots and necrophelia? Probably. Didn't I make an ass of myself in that class with my carrots and necrophelia? Happens aaall the time. And suddenly it didn't feel so good no more.

Thing is that I have a track-record, I think, for unintentionally making blllunders. And noises that to me, represent very deep thoughts, but to everyone else, Tourette's syndrome and blatant ignorance. There's stuttering, stammering, sailoresque swearing. There's the rule of thumb that it doesn't matter if you've heard a question, "Yes" always works as a response. Which is why you should never ask a Trinidiadian for directions. If you ask a trinidiadian anything, they will be transformed from the fish-market man they are into a doctor of ANYTHING.

Say you're in a fish market and something terrible happens. Like your uterus falls out. There it is, just like that. Wow.

"Help me, help me! My uterus just fell out!"
"oh, reeeally?" fish-market man will say. "Well, ha. Good for you I'm a ...uterologyist. Been a uteriologyist for going on fifteen years now. I find it calming. And....meaningful."

This will never happen of course. People's uteruses (uterusesi?) don't fall out. It's absurd! But say you're looking for a place then.

"Help me! Help me! My rectum just slipped out! Where's the hospital?!"
Fishmarket guy will ponder a bit, then point to some arbitrary point behind you.
"West?!"
"Yes."
"South west?"
"...Yes!"
"Because that looks more like south."
"Yes. You MUST go south."

THIS is where I come from. Ask me anything, ask me about Godot. Do I understand Samuel Becketts message? Funny you should ask. Am I going to give you an answer? Yes.





Is there more to that answer?
"Yes."

And you can go on like that for years. Or at least until the mandatory feminist in class wants to give a woman's point of view of Godot and what an arse he is, representing all the men everywhere, who stand you up, never call you back, tell you thery are uterologyists and then try to sell you cod bla bla blaaa. Thank God for the small mercies and sexual revolutions.

Most of the time, I just look down into my books, looking very busy - highly busy you might say, and ocassionally look up like I'm about to say something breath-taking, wonders which will make you weep. Only to look down again, I need to revise my thesis. Or - hmmm. What would Kant say. Hmmm. But as a rule, this only works fro one term, before someone realises that that girl- she never really said anything. She never contributed. She's a...a...Capitalist. She hordes our thoughts! Kill her!

So I guess I'm less than overjoyed at the fact I've found myself with a teacher I've already had, and in a seminar group with basically the same people from last term. Lynching is inevitable. Woe is me. Sometimes it sucks to be an islander in Sweden.