Aunty Christ thanks you very much, crazy chicken. And you too, tiny donkey.

The thing about learning a new language is that all of a sudden one is filled with gratitude that one is able to communicate in any language at all. How magical! How miraculous, these things that I’m able to say!

These things that I’m unable to say, on the other hand, I’m not so crazy about. As I told my maestra de español the other day, “I was not having looked at the hour, then I was being late. I feel it.”

One thing about the Spanish there is that they want you to distinguish between what is forever, and what is only for a time. Which we do too, I guess. I am drunk versus I am a drunk. Though the difference is that one who speaks English fluently can do that kind of thing without thinking too much about it, and one who speaks Spanish haltingly is forced to consider the truths of one’s existence anew with every sentence. ¿Estoy cansada o soy cansada? ¿Soy triste o estoy triste?

So I mean it, from the bottom of mi córazon negro y frío, when I say that I am grateful to be able to write this small post to you people, without worrying about whether you people are my familiars, or children, or a group consisting of my betters, and being more hopeful than not that I am saying what I mean to say and not something about that time when there was a robot-pig on the crunchy trousers.

Anyway, this is why I haven’t been writing lately. No soy escritora. Estoy estudiando.

And I am stressed the fuck out, pardon my French. I really hope it’s not a forever state of being, but I don’t know yet.