I went to Paris last weekend. I took a baking class. I made croissants and pain aux raisins and pain aux chocolat and other delicious French things that I can’t spell despite seven years of the language from scratch.
I was also sick all weekend, convenient for “accidentally” coughing and sneezing on “all” of them so I “had to” eat every one. So sad.
I sent your postcards, by the way. During a postal strike, because I am timely as fuck.
GPOYW.
In Prague. With a statue of Franz Kafka.
Sorry I’ve been away, guys. Been helping old Franzie here point a guy with no head around Prague. Which is slightly ridiculous, because how is he going to see where we’re pointing? Didn’t think of that, did you, Kafka? Silly bitch.
Prague was the most beautiful place I have ever seen.
I went with two other girls, and over three days our activities included: rooming with two random American guys in a hostel, getting lost, doing a three hour walking tour, going to the four synagogues of the Jewish Museum, getting lost, the Cubist Museum, the Museum of Communism, getting too drunk to do that lame “standing” thing after a pub crawl, a three hour tour of Prague Castle, dinner on a boat with a random couple from Newcastle, going to Petrin Tower, getting lost, going back to the St Vitus Cathedral, walking up and down Wenceslas Square, eating endless sausages and potato pancakes in Old Town Square, going up in the Astronomical Clock tower and, of course, getting lost.
Now I’m sick and aching all over, but goddamn, it was worth it.
Look at this picture of me being a pirate for Halloween at age 7.
Look at it.
There is a guy right now that I… yeah. I just find him incredibly interesting. And smart and funny and nice and easy to get along with and all that. And goddamn I just want to have a beer with him or something but I just can’t get myself there.
It’s frustrating because I feel like, in the past year or so, I’ve learned so much about myself. I’ve grown, cliché as that is. I’m coming to something near acceptance over how I look. I’m starting to understand my personality and how I come across to others. I know now the kinds of people I enjoy being around, the kinds of people who make me happy and I’ve even come to terms with not being accepted by people who didn’t fit into those categories. I’m starting to get how to make friends and how not to make enemies. I feel much closer to being a whole, adult person, and I like myself.
And I can’t ask a guy out for a beer.
Shyness, self-absorption, introspection, nervousness, debilitating fear of rejection, whatever. I want to punch myself in the face every time he’s in the room and I just don’t talk to him.
I have to start writing midterm papers tomorrow. I should go to bed. But yes, back to the discussion, sometimes men suck. Sometimes women suck. Sometimes unicorns suck. Everybody sucks, at least sometimes. I have yet to meet someone who doesn’t.
I SAW KEVIN SPACEY I SAW KEVIN SPACEY I WAS IN THE FRONT ROW AT INHERIT THE WIND AND THE TICKETS WERE ONLY TWELVE POUNDS AND THIS IS THE SECOND TIME I’VE SEEN IT AND IT WAS SO GOOD AND IT HAD KEVIN SPACEY IN IT AND HE LOOKED AT ME THREE TIMES KEVIN SPACEY KEVIN SPACEY.
Hi, guys. GPOY I guess.
Okay, first off, this is adorable: my Tumblarity is 0.
Also, I would like to send you guys some postcards from foggy Londontown. Very slowly. Over the course of like a month. If you get one next July, it’s not because of the UK Post Office, it’s because I found one in the bottom of a suitcase and sent it from Iowa. This is more likely than you think.
Anyway, send me your addresses so I can stalk you and eat your children and afterwards send you a postcard to make you feel better about having your children eaten:
katefeetie@gmail.com
And be sure to add your Twitter/Tumblr names, because otherwise you’ll get one saying “I know you from… the Internet?” Just kidding, they’ll all say that anyway.
WHILST THOU EMAILEST ME?
Portraits of a Sexy Person: Act 4. The final act.
Thank you for allowing me to flood your dashboards. AND GOODNIGHT.
