"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>"homs" and i , when death is upon us.

>madrid was a riot of gleaming sun, angry street men with busy hands, fountains, and hot hostel nights of “like a prayer” and “cry me a river” choreography.

i met my homosexual boyfriend, johnathon ratcliffe (from oxford, england) my first night while snapping humid photos of 3 hostellers making madonna their official goddess of dance.

he has sunkissed hair, fat lips, white english skin with light freckles and petit ingrown hairs, pythons for biceps, and a dry english humour that makes helen fielding look like an amateur hack.

arm in arm, cheek to cheek, bum to bum, the city was our oyster. we scoured unsuccessfully around the Goya area for a Chanel boutique, ran across chaotic traffic screaming “death is upon us!” laughed uncontrollably in an epiceria as a darkened girl in line ahead of us punched her oatmeal sack, ate our 80-cent-dinners while fantasizing about cocky viennese traveller Max, strolled down Gran Via at dusk pushing the homeless men with busy hands out of our way, climbed the Don Quixote statue that smelled like a horses´ass, checked out the talent in the gaybourhood, yipped about the bats that flew over our heads, sunbathed at the Casa De Campo piscina´s while old saggy ladies wore unfortunate bikinis, feasted on Maoz falafels 4 times in 2 days, devoured gelato like hungry skunks . . .

and drank milky mango drinks on the patio of the Armenia café on Calle del Carmen while taking a tally of how many male pedestrians we would fuck. after 2 hours, there were 120 yes´and 120 no´s. johnathon put the cherry on our sundae-sunday by commenting on one man´s appearance, “his face looks like the back end of a camel.”

i lost my equilibrium in my hysterics.

i introduced him to silly canadian idioms like “i´m awesome!” while he regalled me with “gutted,” “bothered,” “proper,” “yeah, y´are!” and my favourite, “Whatever, McDonald´s Worker, Walk away!”

he´s training to be the sexiest “hom” flight attendant to come out of oxford. he´s ready to fly the friendly skies to corsica, and i wish i could be there with him.

the cold i felt coming on back in barcelona hit my vocal chords like a bitch slap, and i have now lost my voice. i tried singing songs to johnathon and i sounded like an adolescent afraid of the impending puberty.

i left this morning with a heavy heart for valencia, but johnathon emailed me to say he had a pseudo-erotic experience last night with a deaf traveller that stared at us all day. i arrived in my valencia hostel wishing johnathon was coming to la tomatina with me.

the festival is in a few days. i am ready for the redness.

after arrving in valencia this morning, having been fed scrambled eggs, orange slices and kiwi, whoel wheat breads and croissants on the train, i decided to do some grocery shopping at Mercado. i was followed by some random guy in broad daylight. luckily, he was a complete moron and i am super brilliant.

i noticed him in line behind me giving me weird looks. as i left the shop, i knew he was behind me, because he didn´t do a very good job of concealing himself or keeping his distance. so i pretended to stop and adjust something in my plastic bags so that he would pass me and i would be behind him. i waited for a bit until he was a few blocks ahead, and then i continued along behind a family. but the guy started to slow down until we were almost walking side by side.

he had desperate eyes and an ugly stride. i could see right through to his depleted bone marrow.

i didn´t want to get in front of him again, so i stopped and pretended to adjust my shoe strap. he literally stopped on the sidewalk and watched me. there was a big and bright alley to my left, so i turned down it quickly. when i looked behind me, he was coming down the alley.

so i ran like a sprinter on steroids.

this proved difficult, because i was carrying 5 cans of peas, corn and chick peas, and a sack of grapes. plus, it´s 40 degrees out. but i easily lost him on calle san martin.

i´m plenty safe, and i know to kick to the mean spaniard boys in the shins.

tomorrow brings bus tours and whispers as i rest my voice.


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