Tears on my pillow

To the lovely Alexsandra Ghez and the mediocre-at-best Denis Jones,

Perhaps you have already heard from Megos, but much to my sorrow, she has bid adieu to Marrakech and returned stateside. She left yesterday after a very busy week of goodbye dinners, lunches and drinks. Also, as tends to happen, she met the most wonderful guy just 6 days before D-day. After just one day, Meds and Megs appeared to have been dating for months, so you can imagine how heartbreaking it was for all when she left.

After dropping la petite off at l’aeroport, I spent the afternoon wandering dejectedly around the medina and ended up completely lost. I have no sense of direction and have depended entirely on my sissy to get me around the medina (cue the violins). Without her, I was hopeless and ended up in the Bab Doukkala bus station, where I sat for sometime among other seemingly cheerless faces. As the sun began to set, I decided to terminate my day of dramatic and depressed wandering about, and I also began to crave a Kit-Kat, so I headed home.

I wish I could say my night ended well. Well, the Kit-Kat totally hit the spot, but the movie selection did not. I’m that person who everyone hates watching movies with because I have seen like every single movie ever made. I don’t really understand how that happened because I feel like I spend a very average amount of time watching films, but inevitably, when choosing a movie with someone else, I have seen every possible choice. Anyway, sometimes I pretend not to have seen a movie so the other person won’t be annoyed with me and can think that we are sharing in the excitement of a first-time viewing or whatever. So, Pascal picks out Dancer in the Dark. I remembered seeing it in the theater and crying at the end, but I figured (like the complete idiot I am) that it probably wouldn’t be as sad the second time around and I had already negged his previous 5 selections and could tell he was getting ticked off. I will tell you something guys, it is just as sad if not 10 times more sad the second time around. I was not just crying, but like bawling, chocking, snot-all-over-myself, sobbing for the last 45 minutes of that film. Every time Bjork calls herself "Silly Salma" I wailed. During the last 107 steps to her execution, I had to excuse myself because Pascal could not even hear Bjork’s lines. I think he was pretty grossed-out with me by the end of the movie and I don’t blame him.

Meggie, come back to your sister.

Pain in my heart,
Julia