Oye. Quiero compartir contigo muchas experiencias. Pero me cuesta poner en frases comprensibles mis pensamientos, mis ideas, mis observaciones sobre Stgo, sobre el fuerte olor de orina que pica las calles, sobre la carnicería grotesca de polillas debajo cada farol que encuentro al caminar por Parque Bustamante en la mañana, sobre la sangre Chilena. Sabes? Pero -- te cuento esto:

I was in class this evening, and my funny bone was tickled. But not just tickled: Sprained. And when a tickle becomes an injury, there's no apologizing. Which is trouble.

The class, honestly, was boring me to tears. We're talking phrasal verbs and car vocabulary. Wow. And I was just starting to get annoyed with the bird twirpedly chirping away outside. "He's awfully loud," I though to myself. "He's awfully loud." But I maintained my concentration... tailgate, rear end, fender bender, yield, pick up, drop off, buckle up ... And just then, here comes his sing-song voice, in full stereo, belligerently interjecting his Ode to Spring into the classroom.

"HE'S AWFULLY LOUD,"

I thought, loudly, back. I couldn't help but glare at the window-- not out the window, but at the window morbidly covered in half-broken blinds that are only half-broken enough to be ugly, yet still functional enough to continue blocking out the glory of daylight. Irritated by defeat, fueled by paranoia, I glowered at those ugly blinds, half full of annoyance--at ugly blinds, at little birds, at boring books, at phrasal verbs--and half empty of the beautiful sunshine our little friend was so vocally enjoying. When I absently tried to bring my attention back to the class, and they all started laughing, I realized -- That little bastard. He did that on purpose! He's just rubbing it in! And I wasn't the only one who noticed! ... That's not nice. At the very least, my classmates joined me in the oddity of the moment. But it tickled my funny bone in a way that was irreparable. Which is trouble.

Later, everything was funny:

Focus. This is the seventh time I've heard it in a week. No-- it's FO-CUS. Do not say "Fuk-use" or I'll take offense.

"Jump out" isn't a phrasal verb. ... Wait. Yes. Yes it is, because you can jump out of a cake, or a closet. But this is weird for visual learners.

What does "get off" mean? ... Emmmmmmmm. ... Opposite of get on.

And then, on a "How Good of a Driver Are You" quiz, I definitely scored the lowest. And when they asked if it was easy to get a driver's license in the U.S. (obviously, it must be), all I could think about was how I smacked the tester when I put the car in reverse. It was an accident.

Me complicas, pájarito. Me complicas. That was difficult.