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I have, like, no money. It's quite interesting. I have 99 pounds to last until 21st October. Of that, at least 50 will have to go on travel (by which I mean, if I don't make a single journey that isn't to or from work). From Saturday until Wednesday AM, I'm going to be in Germany and the company pays for everything, but that's still 12 days during which I have to feed myself, and then there's the thing where I can't really do anything that involves leaving the house without spending money on travel. I reckon I can feed myself on that. Tamsyn has left some food in her cupboard which I can have, and my housemates are being very generous and understanding. Rent will be paid once I have money. I have shampoo, tooth paste and such, so I shouldn't have to spend any more on essential supplies. There are people I could probably ask for money, and I know I could ask for more overdraft, but I sort of see this as a challenge. I don't want to be so middle class as to just make there be more money- I should sit this one out and deal with the consequences. Also, it's good for you to have to feel the pinch of having no money- makes you more sympathetic and understanding. And I know that it gets a lot more skint than this. The one thing that would break it is if work are going to say that we have to pay for everything in Germany then expense it later. But if that's the deal, then the fuckers can just advance me some pay, because if they're going to give us a hotel where there are no cooking facilities then the onus is on them, really. Yes, I'm aware of the irony in that last comment.
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Afternoon, folks. It's been a while. This journal is way, WAY overdue an update, but I've mostly been too busy doing the stuff to write about it, and in the gaps in between, I've been daunted by the realisation that there's so much to update on. Last time this particular part of the internet heard from me, I was driving myself insane revising and worrying about my marks. That's not a bad point to pick up. After a brilliant may week of Scavenger Hunting, waking up in cupboards, drinking weird blue drinks at garden parties, and preparing for a Fire Troupe gig at (and almost getting blown up by the fireworks at) John's May Ball, I went to a party in London. It was the following day, having had far too little sleep and far too much to drink, that my marks came through on CamSIS- 2.i. Awesome!

The day after graduation, the bizarre tradition and ceremony of which I'm sure anyone reading this will be aware, I flew to Barcelona with Robbie. This was step 1 of the voyage to Nowhere festival. It's a magnificent city. We spent two days wandering around the rolling, packed boulevards in the scorching heat and strolling down Las Ramblas drinking cerveza at night time, once it was cooler, watching acrobats and weirdly painted moving statues at every turn.

On the Sunday morning, we caught- by a mere minute- an early train out of the city, getting further and further from civilisation. At lunch time, we had arrived in Lleida in the midday sun, so we sought shade at a cafe next to a flea market which was selling everything from clothes to old trumpets and odd cooking equipment. On the train to Sariñena, we bumped into three other Burners, or No-oners- a girl with orange streaks in her hair, a guy with a mohawk and a string vest, and one man who actually looked quite ordinary. They said they were getting a lift to site with some friends in a van, and that there might be room for us. After waiting a while outside the run-down, one-horse-town station in the dust, watching the storks nest on top of an anonymous concrete building, a van which had clearly been white before arriving on site pulled up. A group of people from Hackney piled out of the van and swept our companions up in enormous hugs, whooping and exhilarated. Between the crates of power tools and pieces of wood, there was just about room for us. After a brief trip to Sariñena's Chinese Bazaar- it may be a small town, but it had everything including, as I later found out, leather, silver-painted bondage leashes- we were on the road to Nowhere. There were fields with crops, but these were under a constant spray of water from giant sprinklers. Any land left dry was a reddy-brown, earthy, dusty colour with little tufts of greyish grass or gnarled, thorny bushes. We turned off the road onto a dirt track, which threw up great clouds of dust as we drove. Eventually, we crested a ridge and there it was- playa. Our European playa. Quite unlike any festival site I'd ever seen before, the tents were spaced out widely in the dust. Domes as tall as four people were littered here and there, some covered in brightly-coloured fabrics, others half constructed scaffolding skeletons, like a happy death star. Someone in the van pointed at a tiny figure on top of one of these and said "That's Yara up on the dome!". Rich Miller's familiar figure- leather hat, sunglasses and a dust-stained white shirt- tinkered with a wooden construction that could only be a toilet. A shirtless French man with long, curly hair supplied us with our wristbands and we got out of the van, heading over to our camp, Übertown.

"Don't pitch your tents there- that's going to be the dance floor." A very tall, burly man in a black vest pointed at a rectangular scaffolding and explained that this was going to be the DJ tower. After pitching our tents with the help of a blue sarong-clad Jen, we wandered over to a kitchen construction and started saying hello to our fellow happy campers for the next week and a half. At that moment, there was a loud crack of thunder and the heavens opened. Frantically, the chilled group became a buzz of action, grabbing tarps, throwing them over the kitchen and holding them in place against the rising winds of the summer storm whilst cable ties were looped through every hole. Kitchen waterproofed, it took very little time before people's clothes came off and at least seven or eight people started wallowing in the mud. One naked man started hula hooping, cock and balls bouncing around in time with the hoop. Welcome to Nowhere.

Having deliberately arrived on site a couple of days early, the next day was one of setup. I was assigned to a bouncy, business-like Swiss woman named Nati to help build the information desk. Bessie, whom I knew from Cambridge, joined in, as did a man called Simon. From piles of scrap MDF, we erected and decorated a structure which was remarkably sturdy. There were freezers for ice. I was tasked with decorating it, so Bessie and I washed the boards, sprayed over the previous year's decor and created a green stencil of a broadcasting mast. Because we're Funkhaus, innit.

Later that afternoon, Robbie and I were put on toilet duty. This entailed lots of screwing bamboo screens into wooden frames and nailing them to the toilets, and even more chaos, as it emerged that no-one was really "in charge" of building the toilets, and so we were told once to remove the frames and make the bamboo shorter so the whole thing didn't blow over in the wind, before being told by someone else that we could leave it. Nonetheless, the group of us- mostly the Swiss man named Trench, the cheerful, colourful Dutch girl with long dreads in a bun on her head and the slim, practical Lithuanian woman named Vi- short, punky platinum hair, denims and Werkhaus stamps on her limbs- got a decent bit done. That night, the Italians turned the Function Ones on. Often called the best speakers money can buy, these creations blasted crystal clear minimal techno into the desert night for hours. They were still going strong when I hit the sack at three in the morning. Surprisingly enough, I overslept my breakfast shift.

Once the festival proper had started, week became a bit of a blur. Unlike most festivals- and this is what a lot of people don't seem to understand about Nowhere- there isn't a line-up of bands. There are workshops run by, well, anyone who wants to run a workshop. Sometimes, these are a bit disorganised. Often, they are amazing. You turn up to whatever you want to go to. The weather is so hot that for large parts of the day, most people aren't really doing anything. I saw the thermometer hit 39° in the shade on a regular basis. You get boiled out of your tent by 10am at the latest, usually after partying until you think you can sleep through the body-shaking bass emanating from the competing sound systems of Übertown- usually playing jungle and grime- and the Italians, who are usually on the minimal techno. Around half way through the week, the ridiculously happy "Future Boogie Mix" of chirpy London camp Anything Goes started to get a look in, too. Consequently, the hours between midday and 3 in the afternoon are siesta o'clock. Nowhere is half about the daytime activities, half about the wanton, all-night raves.

So if there aren't any bands and you don't want to spend all your time at workshops, what do you actually do? The answer lies in the festival-goers. Nowhere is not run by a company, nor is it sponsored by anyone. The tickets are done at cost, and there are only around 600 people there. This means that if you want to bring something amazing to site, you do it. The most obvious of these things are art installations. Dotted around the entire site are works of art, many of them interactive. Grants for these come from ticket money. There was a series of dummies covered in circuitry and pieces of computer. At the end of the line was a giant wall of circuit boards inviting you to press some buttons. Do it right and you win something. Do it wrong and it plays the sounds of burning or screaming. Elsewhere, there was a maze brought by some Danes. The walls may have been waist-high and made of fabric so thin as to be translucent- but this wasn't a normal maze. Along the top of each wall ran EL wire. The Danes were in possession of rainbow glasses that split every point of light you can see into the spectrum. Navigating the maze with the glasses on, with the EL wire walls turned on at night, was truly something else. Even the entrance gate was a work of art- standing a good 20 feet tall, it was decorated with inflatable blue bubbles and had a ladder leading up to the top, from which you could see all round the festival site. Possibly most stunning of all was the Kreuzkruzer. The first time I saw it, it was dark. There was, quite literally, a portable party going past me. Pounding speakers, flashing lights, people dancing and everything. But it was moving. A closer investigation revealed this to be a party car. Stripped down to the chassis and kitted out with a bar, sofas and a set of speakers, this was like nothing I had ever seen. There was something in equal measures thrilling and terrifying about leaping onto a moving car covered in dancing people who were mostly not entirely sober. But man, was it fun.
Even on a smaller scale, there was a lot of crazy stuff out there. Everyone brought costumes. I had my clown dress. Various people had animal outfits. There were corsets, booty shorts, false eyelashes. There were bras made of ties, fascinators made of fish and make up that made your skin look like a mirror.
Unfortunately, there was one painfully memorable night that put a downer on things for the rest of the festival. One of the fantastic contraptions at the festival- in my own camp, Übertown- was a giant hammock. Suspended between several three-metre wooden posts and secured into place with winches and ratchets, this creation was- apparently- paradise to lie in. Shaded from the sun and very comfy, up to ten people were allowed to share this. It was 6:10 on the Wednesday night or Thursday morning, and plenty of people were still dancing to buzzing, thudding jungle that fans would probably call “dirty”. On my way to pick up earplugs, I noticed that everyone had stopped dancing in the last five minutes. They were huddled in worried little groups. Something wasn’t right. The hammock’s poles were lying on the ground. A shocked Bessie told me quietly that the hammock had collapsed. With people inside. Unlike almost everyone else present, I was sober, and so I hurried to find first aiders. Hilda was already on her way, as was the ambulance. The following conversation with the merry, oblivious DJ is a god explanation of the few complaints I had about the festival, and especially Übertown:
“Could you please turn the music off? The hammock’s collapsed.”
“Why do I have to turn the music off?”
“But why does that mean I have to turn the music off?”
I could have smacked him.
“Because there are people covered in blood down there who need ambulances and we have to be able to communicate with the Spanish-speaking ambulance crew...”
He turned the music off. I was so outraged I could hardly speak.
Not trained as a first aider and not even able to speak Spanish, I felt like a spare part, but was determined to do my bit to help. I motioned for people to go to the welfare tent and stop gawping. I found a girl, naked except for a thong, curled in a foetal position and shivering on a mattress by the DJ booth. She wasn’t responding when we spoke to her. I tried to fetch help, but they were busy dealing with the head lacerations. I gave her my hoody and reluctantly allowed her friends to escort her to her tent without any medical attention, but it put me in mind of another time I’d seen a friend like that, and I bit my lip hard to stop myself from crying at the memory of what had happened then. I tried to give the ambulance crew some spare clothes for the girl whose T shirt was covered in blood, but they refused, saying something I didn’t understand. One man- the epitome of hippy, with a beautiful, curled, bushy moustache, long brown hair and a chilled southern drawl- had been caught under a pole when the hammock collapsed. They thought his leg was broken. He was sitting in the wreckage grinning, laughing and smoking cigarettes with some friends. Worried, shocked and surviving on about 5 hours of sleep over the past 3 days, I made a pile of lost property. I felt numb. It was all I could do. Eventually, I went to see Steve in his camp and- after giving several kettle-loads to the welfare tent “Tea and Empathy”, who were dealing with so many cases of shock that they’d run out of hot water, we had a cup of tea. I headed to bed.
The next day, I spent hours chilling on the entry gate. The rumour mill about the accident was remarkably small, and most people were spreading the truth. Initial assertions that nine people had had to go to hospital were clarified- nine people, including designated drivers, friends, translators and all- went to hospital. Only four or so people were actually hospitalised for injuries, and all but one of them was back on site that day. I greeted the last of them- the hippy man, on crutches but smiling and giggling like anyone’s business. I was disappointed to hear Robbie saying “I heard that one of the cable ties had been CUT... and there WERE more than 10 people in there...” but these theories were quashed when a full investigation revealed the cause to be a faulty ratchet handle. A faulty part. It was not the fault of the builder in the slightest; indeed, the thing was widely considered to be over-engineered. All that could have been done was to build in more redundancy. Either way, the beauty of Nowhere is that it can be because the kind of people who go aren’t the kind of people who sue. There is a waiver saying that you accept all responsibility for serious injury or death when you buy the ticket, and although this apparently carries no legal weight, the mindset is there. If everyone who went was a compensation shark, Nowhere couldn’t be.
The rest of the festival was wonderful. There was a naked mud fight. There was swimming in the river. We formed a marching band of improvised noise on flute, sax, trumpet and a lot of drums. I crawled through a little tunnel made of camo fabric into a tiny, secret space accessible only by crawling. It was magical and it was wonderful. By the time Tass escorted us off site to get our 7.30am train, I had become an evangelical Nowhere preacher of the worst kind, the kind who had put me off going in the first place. I only wished I hadn’t listened to that side of me.
We arrived in Barcelona covered in dust, with hours to kill. Steve had come with us. He was flying that evening, we were flying a day later. On discovering that all hostels in Barcelona were too expensive, we decided to head to the airport with him, sleep there, and spend the day of our flight looking around Girona. After some walking and some food-buying, we happened upon the amazing building that is the museum of art and the Fonta Magica. It’s an amazing, opulent part of town, refurbished for when Barcelona held the Olympics. There, we met Diesel, Zooty and Mother Superior. After a pleasant afternoon of cakes, coffee and wandering, we headed to the bus station. Except that there were no buses. Perhaps the screens were malfunctioning? Steve was horrified. An enquiry told us that the last bus to the airport left at 19:30. No time to get a train. It would be a 150€ taxi or a new flight. After weighing up the options, Steve decided on the taxi. We agreed to chip in. Our taxi driver was a lovely man who drove extra quickly to get us there on time. We paid and dashed into the airport. In the check-in queue, Steve put his bag down and we waited with it. It was leaking red. Horrified, we remembered the bottle of wine that was in there- somehow, it had broken. We grabbed a pack of baby wipes and scrabbled around on the floor clearing up the wine and emptying all his possessions from his rucksack. Frantically repacking, Steve checked in, emptied the broken glass from his bag and dashed off to security a mere 5 minutes or so before check-in closed.
We read a little, and then each decided to go to sleep. At 1am, I woke up. I was feeling ill. No, I wasn’t just feeling ill, I was going to be sick. I walked to the toilets and was sick. Maybe this was just a one-off. I’d eaten something dodgy. It would be fine. But each time I tried to drink water to rehydrate myself, I was more violently sick. Eventually, I had to wake Robbie and beg him to find first aid for me. After being escorted to a first aiding room, they took my blood pressure and asked me thousands of questions. What could be causing this? I reeled off a long list: dodgy food in the heat, hardly any sleep, my body was covered in mosquito bites, I’d been taking random anti-histamines... I was feeling dizzy and weak and just wanted to sleep in a bed, but they decided that I should be taken to hospital in case I had something wrong with my stomach. In the ambulance, I was given a bin liner as a sick bag and escorted to a room with various other grim, peaky-looking people, before being taken to a room on my own. I vomited until my stomach ached. I would have been able to sleep, but it was freezing. I kept asking for a blanket, and each time, the Spanish staff asked what a blanket was in Spanish, understood, then failed to get me a blanket. I was given a painful injection of anti-emetic. After hours- I had no idea how long- I was given a blanket. Soon, though, I was woken up and told I could go. My diet was to avoid anything fruity or milky. They let us sleep for an hour in the waiting room, then kicked us out. It was 7am. We got a bus into Girona, since that was the only way back to the airport. I considered waiting until 9am for the pharmacy to open and give me the prescribed anti-emetics and paracetamol, but decided that waiting outside on a cold bench for 3 hours- the bus came on the hour every hour- would do more harm than good, and so we headed back to the airport, where I slept all day and ate very little. The journey home was tedious, but by 3.30am, we were back at mine in Cambridge, to sleep in a house for the first time in forever. It was time to decompress.
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Think of that tiny hut in Iceland (where you dream of being in peace to do as you wish and enjoy your own company)

Think of how busy your cousin is with her two kids (next time you can't quite muster the energy to get started)

Think of disproving the disapproval of the disapprovers (because how do you better validate yourself to those who tell you to your face that you "don't do much work" or "didn't work very hard" than by getting a nice 2.i? Fuck them!)

On an unrelated note: Jimmer, yeah, I owe you all an Iceland review but that's waiting until after the finals...

Current Music: Wolfram Huschke - go home | Powered by Last.fm

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I interrupt what has probably been an intensely boring procession of angsty uni-work-related posts to bring you the news that I have just made cakes. They are pink. They have mashed raspberries in them. They have icing piled on top which is just as high as the cakes themselves. They have little sugar stars on. They are made with this recipe: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/valentinecupcake_93564 except without the passion fruit. And with banana instead of eggs which makes them ÜBER FRUITY AND MOIST.

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This is the number of supervision essays I have left to write in Cambridge.

Somehow, it doesn't feel like it's as almost-there as I was hoping: it feels like I wrote this list aaages ago. Although to look at it another way, when I started that list, there were 16 essays on it. I've written and sent in 4 of those. I've written and just need to read through another of them. Yet another will be done in somewhere between 24 and 36 hours' time. At that point, it'll be countdown time!

I sent off the most recent at 1am, and I actually feel like I did a reasonably good job of it, which isn't too bad, especially in a paper where I feel the lecturer isn't that great a teacher. On Wednesday, college ran an essay clinic, which gave us some good tips. They seem to work, too!

Had a bit of an episode of waaaah I'm going to get a shit mark on Saturday. Poor Andy had to put up with it again. Maybe it should be used as motivation to get off LJ and do some work!

I didn't leave the house at all yesterday and have no real reason to do so today. There are some rumours that this is unhealthy, but it seems to be quite productive...
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*not one of the brightest students in Cambridge. There's a level of alacrity, a level of sharpness which I just don't quite have. The ability to make a connection, think of an answer, process some information, like a snap of the fingers. I can't do that. I know I'm not stupid. I'm in Cambridge, and I stopped feeling like I'm not meant to be here a while ago because if I weren't meant to be here, I wouldn't be sitting here as a finalist. I'm probably at around the bottom 20% if my position in the year in second year is anything to go by. It's not a nice feeling, but I can deal with it.

*not working hard enough yet. Not working efficiently enough. I can't stop myself from getting distracted. I find myself compulsively checking e-mails, Facebook, other e-mail account, ICQ, MSN... when I should be working. If I could only force myself to stop doing this, I'd work a lot more efficiently and quickly. Some people seem to get firsts because they're insanely clever. Some people get firsts because they never leave their rooms or stay out late. I'm not the former and I'm not capable of the latter. I'm not capable of a first, either, and don't have my sights set on one, given that I very, very rarely get firsts in any work I hand in, but having been borderline 2:2-2:1 for my entire degree, I'll be pissed if I fall just below the line. I need to really internalise and feel the fact that to do well and to do enough work, I need to go out a lot less. A couple of weeks back, I was working on a Friday evening because the pub activities weren't due to start until 8 and it wasn't worth going home. At first, I felt really miserable and friendless for working on a Friday late evening, but then I realised that actually, there were quite a lot of people in the library. When I text David to ask about meeting up to go to the pub, he was working until pub time, too. I need to realise that working on your own in your room isn't miserable, lonely, pitiful, excessive- it's what we're all here to do, really. There are so many amazing people here and it's saddening that I'll never be able to spend as much time as I'd like with even half of them, but I really need to work!

*banging my head against a brick wall of an essay. I'm supposed to be writing a contrastive linguistic commentary on two pieces of Old High German. I think. I was planning to write two separate commentaries, then I missed the lecture on Tuesday but got a text from Elaine saying, did I know I was supposed to be doing the one which starts "Ther heilant quad imo", so I only read up on the first text, but then I realised I had nothing to compare it *to*, and maybe I should compare both texts to one another, after all. Either way, I feel like I can give lots of general information about the texts, but a commentary is supposed to be really close language work, and I just don't know what to do. I feel like I know nothing at all. I can't point at the text and say "That there is an example of a bad translation because of Latin transfer", or "that ending places the text as being early Old High German because" bla bla bla... This can't turn into an all-nighter, because that's a habit I really can't afford to get into, but I can't imagine producing any kind of half-worthy piece of work at this rate. I didn't even really have the time to write this entry, but expressing myself is good once in a while, and it sure as hell comes to me more fluently than the essay does... This is verbal diarrhoea, the essay is verbal constipation ;-)

If anyone has any tips on how to stop procrastinating and concentrate better, do let me know. I'm considering getting hold of some evening primrose oil, which is supposed to be good for helping you concentrate. I have other ideas about what might help, but won't post them here...

*going to try to write this essay now, come hell or high water. I make it 3:50am. I WILL get at least 3 hours of sleep. I need to be up at 10, so this needs to be done and sent off by 7. 1000 words in 3 hours is easy peasy, right...?
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I think it says barrel loads about the German mentality that a friend of mine was taking part in Ju jutsu at a German national level and weighed a kilo too much to enter for the weight category she'd been weighed as at the start of the year, and was so instructed to jog the kilo off over the course of the day. When she was 100g off the weight limit, she was literally sent to shit out the rest. They wouldn't just enter her and then make her go to the toilet, no. She had to go for a shit before they would let her enter.

Also, I was in the Language centre picking up a certificate today and just so happened to ask how things were going with my belated contract for the work I did last semester. At this point, they told me that there was a piece of paper I had to sign, without which my contract wouldn't be processed, which had seemingly been forgotten about beforehand, and which was important. It was a list of things I'm not allowed to do or be asked to do as an employee. I was like, can I just sign this and go? I mean, without this piece of paper, which I'm signing a month after I finished working there, I would never have known that I'm not allowed to free any prisoners Hannover University language centre might have... But no, I can't just sign this piece of paper then leave it in the faculty office so that the relevant dude can sign it and be done with it, I have to go to him and sign it whilst he's there, and he has to explain it all to me. Luckily, he was in. However rather than just being like "paperwork jumping through loops don't worry about that", he actually explained the whole fucking thing to me. He then told me that I could keep the second copy. I went back to the office to double check and they were like "No, we need to keep that."

This comes after they made me come back a total of four times because I'd handed in the wrong subtle variation of a piece of paper which had the same, up to date details on every time.

And after I've had to go to the Bürgeramt.

And the Pension insurance amt.

And they've refused to pay money into a British bank account.

On the bright side, in picking up the certificate, I found out that I got a 2 in Portuguese. I was certain I'd either failed it or just scraped through, after the point where the exam started and I was still in tears in an office in the next campus. Because some woman was being a German bureaucrat.
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I was talking to a German friend who briefly spoke to my dad on the phone today, and when I asked, he said "Sorry, but your Dad speaks better German than you!"

Well, fuck that. My dad hasn't lived in Germany for 30 years or more. I'm right at the end of a long stay abroad and I still can't get rid of my shitty fucking English accent- I try so hard to sound German because I get so sick of it being a massive thing that I'm from England whenever people meet me and so sick of the implicit racism in that if I said I was Polish or something, they'd probably just be like, "Oh"... I still make the simplest case and gender mistakes, and it pisses me off because I know it's wrong but the grammar machine in my head doesn't work quickly enough to attach all the right endings and the right form of the word "the" in time... I just feel like I know so many people who aren't even languages students and can speak a foreign language far better than I can speak German, partially without even having lived there. This year's been so difficult and I've tried so hard and if even my dad can do a perfect German accent despite not having lived here in decades, what sort of fucking failure does that make me? I'll never be able to fucking do it. :(
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I think I know what I want to do when I graduate. I want to move to different countries round the world teaching English and German as foreign languages. It's not a pipe dream, but something which has slowly materialised and clarified over the past few months.

The feelings of loneliness, isolation and panic aren't in Germany, they're in my head. Whether that makes them easier or harder to deal with, I don't know.

I don't know where home is anymore. But I'm starting to wonder whether that's a bad thing or not.

Do you ever get that sense of foreboding when someone says "You know [person x]?" and you just know that the next sentence is "They've passed away"?

Oft wird die Frage gestellt, ob man am liebsten 5 gute Freunde oder 20 Bekannten hätte. Damit wird- meiner meinung nach- gemeint, dass man das Erstere wählen sollte, aber ich habe mir immer gedacht- wenn alle 5 irgendwie nicht da sind bist du ganz alleine, also wie wär's mit 20 Bekannten? Aber hier habe ich beide Erfahrungen gemacht, und ich weiß, was mir lieber ist...


Current Music: Turbonegro- Boys From Nowhere

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So, ich hab mir heute eine deutsche Tastatur gekauft- 12€, und sie ist übrigens bequemer als meine Laptoptastatur. Heute früh hab'ich ein bisschen verschlafen, aber mein erstes Seminar ist sowieso langweilig. Zumindest sind die Seminare für dieses Semester schon fast vorbei. So schnell läuft die Zeit! Dann war das zweite eigentlich sehr interessant- eine Kommilitonin hat die Verfilmung des Anna Seghers-Romanes "Das Siebte Kreuz" dargestellt und die darauffolgende Diskussion war sehr interessant. Ich habe auch gelernt, dass ich gleichzeitig stricken und zuhören kann...

Ihr hättet mich nicht ermutigen sollen, auf deutsch zu schreiben- jetzt werde ich halt die ganze Zeit Quatsch schnatten... :P Na gut- bis jetzt geht mein Auslandsjahr sehr gut.

Oh, letzte Frage- wie beschreibt man Leute, die sich als geschlechtsneutral betrachten? "Es" ist für unbelebte Objekte...
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