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Ugh. I hate my book now.
I have to clean my apartment more since I will be leaving in about an hour and a half, but I hope to write at the airport/on the plane.
The coach decided to hold a practice very early in the morning to punish the team for having partied the night before. Olga is sad to discover that her and Fernando were featured on Kickette today. Read on:


"When I got home I checked my e-mail, and found one with the subject “URGENT! READ NOW!” from Sam. This didn’t bode well.
It turns out that Sam reads the by-women-for-women football blog titled Kickette, to keep up on industry gossip, as well as juicy WAG gossip. Amid more complaints about Coleen Rooney’s bag size and how long her pants are, and a Thursday Thigh-Off between Sergio Ramos and Antonio Mourinho, this piece grabbed my attention:

Who Is Fernando Torres, and Where Has He Been All My Life?

For those of you watching the Liverpool-Juventus Champions League match-up last night, you might know Fernando Torres, the speedy Spaniard, as the hottie that scored the series-winning goal in injury time to put Liverpool through to the semis against Chelsea. For those of you who were not watching, you probably have no idea who he is. No one does. But soon, you will.
From our research we can tell that he’s twenty-one, a Valencia native, and currently on the Liverpool reserve squad. Yesterday he was controversially subbed in for Robin van Egeraat after a dirty tackle by Juventus bad-boy Bruce Barton, which injured the Dutch striker. It was his first game on the big stage, and he scored on his first touch.
Oh, and he has an ass like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream. Someone, please get me a bowl and spoon immediately! But Fernando, we were not pleased with the lack-of-shirt-removal situ. We expect to see abs next time, Nando.
Before you all get too excited (we have been going nuts all morning here at Kickette trying to think of ways to steal his jock strap) it appears as though he is spoken for. He proposed to girlfriend Olgalina Vennegoor of Hesselink (Really? What kind of a name is that?) last week at a game at Anfield that he wasn’t playing in during half time.
What do we think, Kickettes? We have attached all of the photos we can find, and the boys over at Dirty Tackle have a video of his fantastic goal. Will you be joining us to find the perfect black dress in which to crash their wedding?

What the fuck? OLGALINA?? I have a terrible name. I couldn’t think that it could be worse. But this? How, Kickette? And more importantly, why?!
Oh, but it got worse. There were photos attached, some with me in them. In the photo of Fernando proposing, I looked gormless and stupid. And a little cross-eyed. But even worse, there were photos from last night. You could see my underwear. It was red. My eyes were closed. Luckily for Fernando, he looked pretty good in all of them. Olgalina, however, would never live this down.
Then, things got really ugly in the comments section. Oh god, the comments section. Apparently “Mrs.Antonio.Mourinho” suggested that “Olgalina isn’t even that pretty. Why is he not with a hotter wag, like, say, ANYONE?” Bitch. “LoveLamps” commented that she “live[s] in Liverpool and sees Fernando out all the time with other gurlz having sex on the dance floor! When she was away he talked 2 my frend on a webcam evry night and they had digital get downz!! He sayz he is goin 2 leave her and that she’s an ugly bitch!!! What a dum wag!!!11”
I wanted to throw up. Of course I didn’t believe “LoveLamps,” but how could everyone say those things about me? I didn’t do anything! Fernando doesn’t even own a webcam! What was their problem??"

I actually feel really depressed on behalf of Olga. I hate Mrs.Antonio.Mourinho, and particularly LoveLamps.

10,030

Things really slowed down today after the whirlwind that was yesterday's writing. The boys went out to celebrate at Newz Bar in Liverpool (it really exists) but not much else happened. The bartender was dressed as a vampire (but don't worry- Gordon will make his glorious return in a much bigger way), Olga pondered why so many footballers cheat on their wives and the homoeroticism of the sport, and Olga ripped her dress and had to ask Sam which dance moves didn't show her underwear. There was some dialogue which was frankly embarrassing on my part. I can't write any character that isn't me to save my life. Fernando is such a loser.
I did, however, set it up that Fernando is going to play in Liverpool's game against Ipswich. It is an away game. Hilarity will ensue.

This was one of the only parts I could really think to put in, since everything else included dialogue which I don't want to share with you. Here it is:

Fernando has never really been one to imbibe in excess, but tonight, he really did himself in. That’s the only way to explain why he tried to steal a giant, inflatable lollipop (don’t even ask me how or why this was in the bar, I don’t have an answer to that.) Or maybe it could explain why he did an extremely involved dance to ‘Sexyback.’ You could tell that he had danced like this before, despite the fact that he would never have admitted it. Maybe he danced to Sexyback in the shower before ‘Let It Rock’ was released. Note to self: find out by any means possible.

Not only was he drinking champagne, but also almost everyone in the bar wanted to buy him a drink. I think that athletes are the only people that can accept drinks from other men, and no one would think it was weird. In fact, there are a lot of things that football players can pull off without being called a “fag” that other men couldn’t dream of. Like ass-slapping. Or groin hitting. Or even those hugs and not-so-subtle hair sniffs after goals. Don’t think the irony is lost on them; they combat this by being extremely homophobic and hyper-masculine most of the time.

Girls were drawn to Antonio Mourinho (do you think he would hate me if I called him Tony? What about Tonay?) like me to a pile full of sweaty jock straps. Mull that one over for a while. I think he had two girls around each arm at one point; that probably is the reason that his arms are so freakishly long. He was clearly loving it, since he had that same damned cocky grin pasted on his face all night. The cocky grin wasn’t the only thing that made him look like an asshole; I think the finishing touch was really his outfit. He was wearing extremely tight white pants with a silver button-up silk shirt with a pattern on it that I just don’t care to describe. By the end of the night I don’t think that a single button was done up, which revealed his perfectly hairless chest. I think my chest has more hair than that.

Fernando, on the other hand, was looking pretty fine, if I do say so myself. Let’s just say that he was wearing the shit of the jeans that I had picked out for him, along with a black blazer and white-collared shirt. It is my goal that he never takes a single fashion tip from Tony.

Here is a description of the team from when she met them a few days before. Scott wanted more Tim O'Shea, so here he is:

Most of them were pretty polite, but a few really stood out. Like the infamous Antonio, who was wearing silver metallic short shorts, and a pink t-shirt with a pink flower tucked into his pink baseball cap. He could have put Fernando to shame with his smarmy disposition. Strangely enough, Antonio wasn’t the only one in the room sporting metallic short shorts. If only with that this was the case. His awful outfit was only rivaled by Sergio Ramos’ gold shorts. You can’t make this stuff up. To top it all off, ‘The Ramos,’ as he is often referred to, was carrying a Louis Vuitton clutch and seemed to have a feathered mullet that would make Journey jealous (Please, please, please click on this hyperlink. It's fucking hilarious.) It even appeared that Antonio and the Ramos were in competition with each other or something. Timitar Berbatov looked like a sexual predator. He held on to my hand for just a little too long. And that widow’s peak, oh god, that widow’s peak. The goalkeeper of the squad, Julio Iglesias, just seemed weird. He was colouring in a colouring book, and doing a terrible job at that. My eyes lingered a little too long on the colouring book, and I thought that I noticed a drawing of what appeared to be Emilio Estevez in profile. No one really seemed to notice, and if they did, they didn’t seem all that concerned.
Then there was Tim O’Shea, whom I had met last year in my Liverpool travels. Three things you need to know about Tim O’Shea: One, I’m convinced that he is a borderline alcoholic. And by borderline, I mean he can’t even see the line, let alone walk in a straight line. Two, he has long greasy hair that it appears he never washes. This is odd, however, because if I remember correctly, he takes to the group showers with a never-before-seen verve. And three, he is extremely lecherous. He seems like the kind of guy that wouldn’t find anything wrong with filming up girls’ skirts at the mall escalator. Seriously, he’s perverted.
“Céline! You don’t call me anymore!” he shouted as he jumped up from his brown leather La-Z-Boy hugged me.
“It’s nice to see you too, Tim,” I said as I awkwardly patted him on the head. Note to self: learn how to be around people, you dumbass.
“Congratulations on the engagement, part two! You crazy kids,” he said as he playfully punched me in the arm.
“Well thanks, Tim. It’s nice to see that not much has changed with you.”
“Why would you want to change this?” he asked cockily as he did what I can only describe as a dance with excessive booty shaking and roof-raising.
“Right…” I responded, even more uncomfortably than I had been during ridiculous head patting that had taken place earlier.





And here is proof that a) you can't make this stuff up, and b) I read too many soccer blogs.

Sports Writing at Its Finest

I am making myself stop writing now, because to be honest, this is getting out of hand. I'm at 7,567 words.
Since I left you, Olga has met the first team (it was actually pretty funny in my opinion but I'm going to use another excerpt), met Sam the receptionist at Melwood as well as Tim O'Shea's girlfriend, who tells her how sexist everyone is there. This doesn't bode well for Olga.
But the biggest thing to happen (I think that my book is moving too fast) was the Champions League quarter final against Juventus at Anfield. Read on:


In the eighty-fifth minute, we all thought it was over. Robin van Egeraat, the star striker who always comes through in the clutch, hobbled off the field after a particularly dirty tackle from that asshole Bruce Barton who, despite being English, plays in Serie A because he is too disgraced to play domestically. The stadium booed because he only got a yellow card, because they were frustrated, because they needed van Egeraat to get one of his signature header goals, and because they were terrified. Champions League exits are always heartbreaking, without fail. And don’t think that they were yelling “Bruuuucceeee” and it sounded like booing. It was distinctly booing. According to the original Bruce, Bruce ‘The Boss’ Springsteen, you can tell the difference.
I’m not even sure why this happened. I think about it every night. Why did The Boss (and no, not Bruce Springsteen this time) put Fernando in to replace the injured striker? Why not a more experienced player? Was this really the time for Fernando’s debut? It didn’t make sense then, and it still doesn’t really make sense to me still.
But he did it, he sent Fernando out there, much to the confusion of roughly forty-five thousand people. I heard various shouts of “Who the fuck is that?” and “Pinturicchio’s fucking lost it, ain’t he?” from all around me. Somehow, it seemed like everyone in Anfield was gossiping like schoolgirls in the cafeteria, wondering how the hell The Boss had found the balls to sub in some kid that no one knew. I wanted to shout back at them, “That’s Fernando Torres! He’s going to be the best striker in the world one day, you watch!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the pitch, where Fernando was experiencing what was the biggest moment of his life up to that point, and years later, after more Champions League matches and Cup finals, he would still think it was the biggest moment of his life.
If I thought that I was nervous before, I was being a wimp. This is what nervous feels like. Somehow the sound was drained out of the stadium, and nothing around me seemed to be moving anymore. I could feel my heart beating loudly in my chest. Not like a drum anymore, none of this “loud, constant and steady” bullshit; it was more like a jackhammer. It’s likely that I was in fact experiencing tachycardia. My hands covered my face almost instinctively in horror, but I quickly removed them because they were so covered in sweat.
What’s ironic about it is that Fernando just didn’t seem that nervous. He was running around just like he always had in all of those games I saw him play in with my Liverpool e-season ticket. He was as cool as a cucumber, while I was as uncool as a…unicorn? What the fuck am I talking about now? Olga, you suck.
We were in injury time, maybe the ninety-first or ninety-second minute. The entire stadium was standing, almost motionless, silently praying to the football gods for a miracle. Anything. The ball went to Fernando just outside the penalty box. It was his first touch of the game. He touched the ball lightly to get it around a defender whose name I will never know, then shot.
We must have been moving at close to the speed of light, because time slowed. Mass wasn’t just mass anymore, but it was continuous with energy. The distance between Fernando and I seemed to contract. I study too much.
And then it hit the netting in the top left corner with a ‘swoosh’ that I am convinced was heard around the world. Goal.
I have never heard anything louder than Anfield at that moment; someone in the immediate vicinity probably thought that a bomb had gone off. The stadium certainly erupted like one. Almost everyone in the stadium (save for the stunned Juventus section) was screaming at the top of their lungs. Everything started to shake, because thousands of people were jumping for joy. It literally was an explosion.
Fernando stood still on the spot, too shocked to move. This didn’t last for long, however, as he was soon tackled by Sergio Ramos and became the centre of a six-man pile-up. In that instant, Fernando became a hero. Liverpool won the game and the series.

Three Posts in One Day... Oh Dear

I'm posting so much because I have an exam tomorrow that I don't want to study for. I just thought that I would post a little something for Jill, I think you'll really like it. Also, Fernando is turning out to be really different than I set out for him to be. He isn't supposed to be that funny, but he keeps on cracking jokes. I think it's because I don't know how to write anyone without them being funny, because otherwise they'll be boring.

I awoke at such an ungodly hour that I don’t care to share with you exactly what time it was. You might be just as offended as I was. And it wasn’t just the hour that pissed me off; it was the way that I was woken up. It took a while to fully hit me that my rooster, or better yet, this cock, was Fernando. Singing. Loudly. In the shower. To ‘Let It Rock’ by Kevin Rudolf, featuring Lil’ Wayne. I could faintly hear the music in the background, but the loudest singer of them all was not Kevin, but Fernando. I love him, I really do, but when I heard his voice that morning, it confirmed to me that there is no god.
I rolled out of bed, hit my head on the ground, and charged for the bathroom so I could let Fernando know exactly what I thought of this wake-up call. But when I opened the door, and I saw him standing in the shower with, no joke, a blue shower cap, my anger evaporated like the steam that was emanating from the shower.
“Do you do this every morning?” I asked, trying to hide my amusement at his bathroom attire.
“Don’t question my methods, Olga. Listen to ‘Let It Rock’ in the shower just once and you will never go back. You will literally attack the day ahead,” he responded.
“I’ll attack you if you do this every morning. I can’t wake up this early just because you want Lil’ Wayne to lick your lollypop.”
“I don’t understand, and I won’t respond,” he shook his head. “And, as much as it pains me to tell you, you do have to wake up this early. We have to drive to Melwood together, and you’re expected to be there when the team shows up. Our jock straps won’t clean themselves.” He joked as he soaped himself up, using that green bar of soap that I loved.
“If that is my job description, I’m going home.”
“I don’t know what you’ll be doing, but for your sake, I pray it doesn’t involve any manner of handling jock straps. I think you would get genital warts just by touching Tim O’Shea’s. And you would probably explode into flames if you even look at Antonio Mourinho’s (for the record, this is the Cristiano Ronaldo-inspired character). You do not want to know where that thing’s been.”
“Disgusting,” I replied, my eyes conveying how disturbed I felt at the thought of handling this part of their equipment.
Because Fernando took so long in the shower (I wonder how much time he could cut out if he didn’t sing) I wasn’t able to shower myself. I hurriedly got dressed in what I decided was work-appropriate attire, stole one of Fernando’s white belts (he had several- I briefly wondered why he had such an obsession with white belts) and ran to the running car with a bagel in my mouth. It turns out that Fernando’s love of ‘Let It Rock’ isn’t confined to the shower. We listened to it on repeat all the way to practice.

I'm going for the 'Best Use of Jock Strap Discussion to Bolster the Word Count' Award. But, important question: do football players even wear jock straps?

3,677 Words and Counting

I am a maniac. Writing like I've never written before.

I am establishing how happy Olga and Fernando are, so they can promptly be destroyed by the weight of their relationship. It's going swimmingly.

Fernando surprised Olga at the airport with tickets to see Liverpool vs. Fulham at Anfield, where he proposed (for the second time). Read on:

"My laughter was interrupted by a loud announcement throughout the stadium, which drew our attention to the giant screen that hung above the crowd.
“Someone here today has a very special question to ask…” I could barely hear over the din of the crowd. I looked up at the board, and it read: “Olga, will you marry me?”
The first thought I had was, “Wow, this Olga girl is lucky, that’s so romantic!” That thought disappeared when my face was suddenly splashed on the screen. I could see Fernando kneeling beside me. It hit me: I’m Olga. You would think that this would have occurred to me earlier, as I have over twenty-one years of experience being Olga, but the situation was just too surreal. The girl that I saw up on that screen looked completely shocked, but somehow I felt disconnected from her.
I turned to him and I saw him staring at me, waiting. He might have even been laughing, but my recollection of these events is shaky at best. Everything around me seemed to stop. It was me and Fernando, alone in the stands, like I had dreamt about so many times before. But this wasn’t a dream; it was incredibly real.
“Yes!” I cried as he stood up, put a ring on my finger, then pulled me into a classic movie-type kiss. I vaguely remember hearing a chorus of “ooh!” but it also could have been “boo!” Everyone applauded, including the players that were emerging from the tunnel to start the second half. The Fernando lover that seemed to know every detail of his life came over to congratulate us. It was amazing."


I hope it's not too terrible. Oh, and I put this picture up not only because it's adorable, but it's also hilarious.

I also introduced some future team members of Fernando's: Hank Lampard, Timitar Berbatov the widows-peaked Bulgarian, and Robin van Egeraat, the Dutchman. Three guesses as to who I'm basing these characters on.

And We're Off!

I just finished my first 2,000 words. I feel amazing. I started right at 12:00, and the words just came pouring out. I missed Olga, I'm glad she's back.

I've decided to post my first chapter, just for fun. I'm kind of happy with it. It isn't very interesting though. I wish that I could have written with you guys (it sounds like Sam and Scott had a good party going on at midnight) but soon enough, I guess.

My writing uniform is my Liverpool Torres jersey and my Liverpool scarf. I forgot to wear them today, though. And my reference book is The Vagina Monologues. I'm very happy about that. Take from that what you will.





“Now you’re mine, my happiness still makes me cry. And in time you’ll understand the reasons why. If I cry it’s not because I’m sad, but you’re the only love I’ve ever had. I can’t believe it’s happened to me. I can’t conceive of any more misery. Ask me why, I’ll say I love you and I’m always thinking of you.”
-The Beatles

What does it mean to be sure? How do we know what’s right? When you really think about it, we’re never really sure of anything. Why do we put such a high premium on it, then? How do we not collapse every day from self-doubt and uncertainty?
I wish I could say that I have never been surer of anything. But really, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m terrified. I have no idea what I’m doing. There is a substantial risk that everything will completely blow up and I will be at the centre of it, wondering what the hell possessed me to make such a tragically poor decision. But I’m not sure if I could bring myself to regret this. I can’t even imagine not taking this massive leap.
If you had asked me a year ago what I would be doing at this moment, I likely would have fallen asleep just considering the possibilities. Punching in for another shift as a barista at Jackie’s Place? Going for a run? Biking with my overly Dutch parents, discussing the merits of total football? Moving to another country against my parents’ wishes to live with my fiancée probably wouldn’t have made the list. But, here I am. Taking the leap. Doing things that I never thought were possible. Yes it’s terrifying, but it is also indescribably amazing.
It all started last summer, in the middle of one of the most boring summers one could ever imagine, before my graduating year at McGill University. My life was static, and my hair was static. Nothing was happening, nothing was moving. That is, until I won $5,000 and decided to use the money to fund a massive Eurotrip, all by myself. That’s when it all began. It was in rainy Liverpool, where I happened to walk in on a Liverpool FC reserve team practice, when we met. Me and Fernando. Fernando and me. It was the beginning of everything, you could say.
He was the star of the team; the Spanish striker with sun in his hair and fire in his soul. I noticed him right away, and as I was plotting ways to get close to him, he noticed me too. Does that every actually happen to anyone? Well, what happens next is almost a complete departure from reality. I couldn’t have even made this up. Our whirlwind romance began on the fields of Anfield Road. Even though we only had two days together, we managed to connect in a way that most people can’t in months, I would guess. Sadly, I had to go off and tour the world, while he stayed in Liverpool scoring goals and setting fire to the pitch. Not literally. We met back up in Valencia Spain, his hometown. We went to la Tomatina, which is essentially a giant annual tomato fight, and realized how in love we were. Then, the most amazing thing happened: he asked me to marry him. And my life has never been the same.
You need to understand this in its context. Before I left for Europe, I was calculating, thoughtful, careful, and scared. I scoffed at anyone that married before the age of twenty-five. Don’t they know about the exceedingly high divorce rate, and how it increases a billion times if you get married before you’re twenty-five? Were they not thinking? I had lived in Montreal for my entire life, with my Dutch parents who passed down to me my height, blonde hair, green eyes, a sense of modesty, and football. Oh, and an extremely depressing name: Olga Vennegoor of Hesselink. To quote Tim Higgins, the American football player that I met in Dublin, “I just lost my erection.” And that described my life. It was erection-free. I did everything I was told to do, I followed every rule, and I was bored. Getting married at a young age and moving away just wasn’t my plan. Granted, I didn’t really have a plan. It likely would have involved marrying a balding dentist while researching groin pulls. And not in the fun way that you’re probably envisioning. As a studious kinesiology major, groin pulls completely lose the humour that most people can enjoy.
Fernando changed everything. Falling in love made me impulsive. In fact, I think it made me live. I’m not saying “you’re nobody ‘til somebody loves you.” No offense Dean Martin, but you’re kind of an asshole. That isn’t the way it works. Fernando doesn’t complete me. He isn’t some magical force that turns me from nobody to somebody. He just makes me so happy that I can complete myself.
I cried when I left him at the airport of Valencia to go back home. But really, it had to happen. I had to finish my undergraduate degree, and he had to go back to Liverpool and make the first team. He doesn’t play football for fame or glory; he plays for his family back in Spain. He plays so that they can have the life that they deserve.
This year away from him has been incredibly strange. I had never been in a serious relationship, let alone a long-distance, secret one. Fernando’s parents knew about our engagement, but my parents didn’t. I’m not exactly sure when I had planned on telling them. As the serious and un-impulsive Dutch people that they are, they would never understand my decision. But I had to tell them. They suspected something was up, as my behaviour had completely changed from pre-Eurotrip to my return. I drank so much Valencia orange juice that I don’t even think I got a cold all year. I just wanted to feel closer to Fernando. And all of a sudden, I followed Liverpool FC’s every move. Even the reserves, wouldn’t you know? This was so much stranger when you consider that I had never even taken an interest in the Premiere League. My parents didn’t approve, as they were staunch supporters of the Dutch Eredivisie. I was on my computer talking to Fernando so much that I think my parents suspected I had some kind of porn addiction. I swear to God I caught them checking my browser history once. I didn’t really plan for the future after graduation, because I knew where I would be going. I probably had a dazed and gormless look on my face every day, inexplicably. Around Christmas they asked me what was going on. I couldn’t lie.
To say that they completely freaked out would be an understatement. They were hysterical. They tried to forbid me to go, but they quickly realized that as a twenty-one year-old there was little that they could do to stop me. They begged and pleaded that I stay. They broke my heart. But I couldn’t give in to them. I feel so sorry to do this to them, but I have to follow my heart, which is going straight to Liverpool right after my last exam.
Fernando and I got to know each other a lot in the year we spent apart. I credit that with the fact that physical contact was impossible. I couldn’t jump him like I always wanted to. Instead of having sex, we talked. A lot. I found out a lot about him. For instance, his favourite season is summer. He likes red. Kids made fun of him in Spain for being blonde and having freckles. He can’t cook to save his own life, and all of his white clothes are a little pink from one of those ill-fated red socks that he didn’t know that he had. To get to soccer practice five times a week, he had to take three different buses for two hours. We didn’t fight; we only planned our future together. I fell in love with him even more.
Fernando has made so much progress this year with the team. He signed a contract with Liverpool FC in March, and has been attending some training sessions with the first team. He even got to dress in the game against Middlesbrough, a team that is destined for relegation if I ever saw one. Even though he didn’t get to play, it meant a lot. He got us a small apartment in downtown Liverpool. He even managed to secure me a job as a physiotherapy assistant at the Melwood Training Ground, where the Liverpool reserves and first team practice. It’s a job that I never would have been able to get without any connections. It’s perfect.
In my year of waiting, I did a lot of research so I would know what to expect once I was suddenly dropped into the football universe. I had to know everything about the Liverpool team members, as well as every other major player in the Premiere League so as not to embarrass myself when meeting them. The Liverpool captain and legendary scouse Steven “Captain Fantastic” Garrison was the heart of the team, and apparently an idol all around Merseyside. The temperamental yet magical Antonio Mourinho apparently had a penchant for five-prostitute orgies and five-goal games. And the coach that brought them all together, the Italian Bernardino Pinturicchio, was famous for hating tardiness, laziness, and WAGs. Oh boy.
I researched the WAGs, just so I could see what my life would be like one day. I concluded quickly that my life would never be like theirs. For some reason, everyone cares about what the WAGs are wearing, who is pregnant, and just how big their bags are. Apparently their bags are too big or something. I don’t know, it was weird. I prayed that I would never get “papped.” No, that isn’t just a gynaecological procedure. Paparazzi follow them around. The main ones, Victoria “Posh Spice” Beckham, Coleen Rooney, and Cheryl Cole (of Girls Aloud fame- shoot me) were literally photographed everywhere they went. As if another shopping trip to ‘Cricket’ really matters. Everyone hated them, too. Several England players blamed their failure at the 2006 World Cup on the WAGs. I’m sorry, but I saw them play that year. They sucked, WAGs or not.
I’m ashamed to report that I even read a book that I suspect was written by a WAG about a young girl who is thrust into the WAG spotlight. I thought, “oh, this could be like me.” No. Not only was it the worst book that I have ever read in my life, but the main character was a complete moron. A lot of bad things happened to her, but all of them could have been prevented had she exhibited a modicum of intelligence. She failed to do so for the entire book. I don’t even know how I finished it. But here I am, armed with knowledge of footballers, their wives, and a play-by-play of exactly what not to do.
As my plane leaves the ground, I think about everything that got me here. Luck. Serendipity. A complete disregard for common sense. And love. Do I know that everything will work out? Of course not. Am I sure that this is a good decision? Definitely. There is no other decision. After feeling the way that I feel about Fernando, there is no turning back. I have to live it out; I have to see what happens. Everything can go completely wrong. But what if it doesn’t? What if it works out, just this once? I have to take the chance. I have to know that I did everything I could to keep this love. I am sure. I’m sure that if I don’t do this, I will regret it even more than I ever could if nothing works out.

Bad News

I have been dealing with this news all day. It's difficult.

Fernando and Olalla got married yesterday. What a sneaky devil. While we were all watching the Champions League final (GREAT game, by the way) he was tying the knot at a Spanish city hall, with two people in attendance.

I need to retreat to my literary world where Fernando is going to marry Olga. This is just too much for me.

I also need to get a life.