You speak in strange tongues. You know what isn’t cute? Pretending you can’t remember the English word for “biblioteca.” (Hint: it’s the place you haven’t been for seven months because your “academic program” involved getting smashed with high schoolers.)
You don’t like hot dogs any more. You can’t possibly be that upset that WeShop doesn’t have hand-crushed saffron from the East Indies. I know you miss your host mom’s curried hen legs, but come on, hot dogs have legs in them, too.
You were briefly unashamed of your drinking problem. Yes, we still can’t legally drink. But that sure never stopped you last year. You also didn’t seem to mind PBR, even though you’re now used to Guinness flowing freely in the streets, the gutters, the faucets, your gullet.
You think you’ve seen “the third path.” Yes, compared to America, Sweden seems like a socialist paradise. But think about it— so does Canada.
You turn your room into a museum of shitty knick-knacks. A mass-produced bracelet which you bought at a mall kiosk is not a “cultural artifact.” You are not “fun to be around.”
You act sad that you missed “Spanglish.” “Aw, I never went to theaters that played American movies.” Fuck you.
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