Irish People Hate Texas

My host mother is named Maeve. I think she's 103. And these are just a couple of the house rules:

-Orange juice is prohibited because it causes multiple types of cancer and OrenthalJamesSimpsonitus Disease.

-My blinds must be open IMMEDIATELY when the sun comes up, or else Maeve receives a very sarcastic text from the neighborhood foxes saying “bae. U up??”   

-Garbage bins are not allowed in the bathroom because her church friends will apparently go through it and steal all the good stuff.

- We have two-minutes showers, which gives me just enough time to shave three toes.   

-The stove, paper towels, cheese, “nice Christmas butter”, fire, dishwasher, ice, small spoons, oxygen, large spoons, and life are all off limits.   

- We are never to have any guests stay over, UNLESS Maeve has already deeply offended them on their cultural, religious, political, sexual, and racial beliefs.

- We must be home by 6:30pm for dinner every night or else Maeve losses her shit and calls the police, then finds her shit then is mad at us for being late to dinner.

-And NEVER let the dog outside of the kitchen unless she gives us “that special look”.

Every house in Ireland has its own unique name and upon entering you must receive mutual consent.

We went to some clubs right. They were chill. We are regulars at a gay club called PantiBar. Not as many panties available as you would think.

I would walk into the straight clubs feelin’ like that sexy Swiffer from those commercials where “Who’s That Lady” is playing. The confidence may have come from the massive amounts of alcohol I induced, or from the fact that Irish girls use funfetti icing in lieu of makeup. I was chatting with these dudes who told me they spoke Viennese. Sounded legit, so I just rolled with it. They promptly left me alone at the bar murmuring something nice like “dumb American”.

I got called a racist three separate times because I’m from Texas. Here’s how the conversations went:

Me: “No, no. I’m from Austin, Texas”

Irish Person: “It doesn’t matter. You’re still a f*ckin’ racist”

Me: “Why do you think that?”

Irish Person: “Cause’ George Bush is from there”

After that logic I realized, “Wow. I must be racist because, yes, George Bush is in fact FROM Texas.” The Irish person then turned to my roommate Emily whose from California and said "Well she's Chinese, so she can't be racist." So much knowledge and wisdom. I don't think I can keep up.     

All the drug dealers are 16 years old or younger. The Irish youths are not normal. There were some teenagers who got off the train and smelled like straight-up dead raccoon asshole and started throwing glass bottles at my crew and me. Since then I’ve been disguising myself as a man, successfully joined the bottle kids posse, seduced their mothers and fathers; made them question their sexuality, now they are all filing for divorce.

Below is an original sketch of what the bottle kids looked like. As well as the notes I’ve been taking in class to keep myself awake, because the cocaine/adderall/crack combo still isn't working. UGH, I hate having a high tolerance.

Three Days In

My travels started off on a good note with a TSA man questioning me about some abnormally massive toenail clippers that resembled a shank at the bottom of my carry on. I don't know where they came from. But he did not find it funny when I said there must be a toenail elf running around the airport. After me and the TSA guy were really hitting it off I walked away wondering if I'd ever see him again and THANK GOD I left my laptop at the security check point and almost missed my international flight for us to be reunited once again.

Im on the flight and everyone's pumped for Paul Blart Mall-Cop 2 but I thought I'd be rebellious and watch Inside Out. I started getting uncomfortable when the couple next to me was watching me cry. I fell asleep listening to United Airlines top 40 station only to realize when I woke up I had been listening to Can't Feel My Face on repeat for at least two hours. For some reason this always seems to happen to me.

Get to Ireland lookin like a pimp with pasta sauce on my dress and a birds nest for hair. Hop on some bus because you know I ain't payin for a taxi then get off at Ballsbridge where people either bring their dog testicles and tape them to the bridge or just watch the sailboats go by. Arrive at IPA and have my first cup of Irish tea with a new friend Kathleen. We share a taxi to our different home stays. During the ride the taxi driver kept the conversations light talking about gun violence, teen pregnancy, and police brutality.

I arrive at my new home and it's real cute. But everything got 100 times better when I saw my longtime boyfriend Graham, who is now my roommate. I was supposed to email someone to make that happen but I guess a lil fate and hailing satan was all I needed. My new host mom is named Maeve and she's like many old irish women incredibly sweet, loving, very family oriented, and just a tad bit racist.

First impressions are everything. Thats why on the second day of classes I poured scolding hot tea on myself while saying good morning to my Irish Parliamentary program director, Michael. I came on a bit too strong and apparently "gave him a fright". But I think the third degree burns on my thighs are foxy.

Cookies are called biscuits, and biscuits are called scones. Still unsure of the word for scones.

I've been drinking a lot. I have a significant beer belly which I'm hoping is a girl.

Irish people have extremely large nostrils.

I've met some awesome new friends from aaaaall over..California. I'm surrounded by very smart Political Science majors and I feel like as a film major I'm really gonna shine at my Internship with the Irish Government at Parliament. All of my professors so far have questioned why I did this program and I really hope I haven't given it away that I'm actually an undercover representative for Agent Cody Banks.

9/10/15