It's fun to stay at the

Either our Italian teacher has been replaced by aliens intent on revamping the wonders of the Spanish education system, or like the Pointy-Haired Boss she accidentally did something right, but today . . . breathe . . . she explained, clearly, what the homework for tomorrow was. I came out of the class stunned, and my friend and I looked at each other in bewilderment thinking that this was somehow a trick. Or that maybe we just became fluent in Italian.

Another Italian related thing occured to me that felt like it was utter genius. I am not happy in those classes (duh, because the first paragraph just reeks of praise and adoration), but I need to do a year of another language for Brisbane. Within a split fraction of a nanosecond I realised that I could finish Italian there, where the system is no doubt a lot more pleasant, and I don’t have to suck and struggle so much. I’m still deciding about that, for various reasons, but I certainly won’t continue if Pointy-Haired Lady returns. There are other teachers, sure, but depending on class schedules and whatever, my options aren’t supreme.

Other revelations: when our lecturer for Italian cinema babbles, she goes on longer than a Kevin Smith Q&A session. I believe the phrase “oh, we ran out of time, I was going to start the movie today” has been mentioned a few times. No idea what she said, not even sure what book we were reading from, as we were given photocopies without the title, or author. How useful.

And my roommate is still listening to Celine Dion. I’m not sure who it is, but if I bring up Caesar’s Palace and Las Vegas in casual conversation, I might be able to find out. And then I’ll make fun of him for being totally gay. If it turns out that he is actually gay, then I can’t use that any more, and will have to find some new angle. At this point I’m grateful if no one remembers that I sang various Village People songs at karaoke. The Biker has a kick-ass moustache. I wish I could grow a moustache like that, but alas, there are no Eastern-European relatives in my history, which also explains why I’m so friggin pale and get hugged by Norweigans and asking if I know Mika. (I do, by the way, but the fucker doesn’t return my calls.)