Today I packed up as many of my belongings as my laziness would permit and hopped in my Ford Taurus to begin the four hour drive home. Somewhere along the way, while listening to my limited number of CDs on repeat (including Rilo Kiley, the Garden State Soundtrack, and my friend’s MileyTaylorShakira&GaGa dance mix), I looked up at what I could only hope was some type of mythical and culturally symbolic bald eagle soaring through the sky and thought THIS IS AMERICA.

Looking back at this afternoon while currently watching the Twilight movie with some recently converted fans (aka my parents), I can’t help wondering why I would ever want to leave this country in the first place.

All I have to say is GOD BLESS US, EVERYONE!

Two weeks without internet had really pushed me over the edge. And by without internet I really mean without wireless internet for the few hours a day I spent at Grandma’s godforsaken house, and by really pushed me over the edge I mean annoyed me enough that I complained to my parents about it. And because I’ve trained them well, they found a way to get me internet by forcing my techno-saavy cousin to find a cheap router and send it to me. Sweet Jesus, my freedom had arrived via UPS. While setting it up and neglecting to consult the instruction or install manual, I fumbled around enough to manage to get wireless on my own computer. That seemed good enough for me. 78-year-old women don’t gchat, right?

Apparently I am wrong, as the next day Grandma began to speak to me in that soft mock-innocent voice she uses every time she wants me to do anything. She wanted me to fix the internet. It was important she check her email.

Being a good granddaughter, I pretended to care that she had a life, and attempted to fix the internet for her. I even used the install CD on her computer, following it step by step until it read some message about the internet working perfectly. Perfect. Grandma gets on and clicks on that little rainbow butterfly icon which is her only connection to the internetworlds. And of course there has to be a problem.

So I spent the next half an hour with my grandma standing over my shoulder asking if I had fixed it every five minutes when clearly I hadn’t fixed it and wasn’t close.

“This isn’t a problem with the internet, it’s a problem with your computer.”

“But can you just put back the internet so I can check my email?”

“Your computer is so stupid. Jesus Christ.”

“I know, it never works, and then everything is all my fault.”

“THIS IS SO STUPID. GOD. JUST. CALM DOWN, OK?”

“Who’s the one that’s not calm here? I’m calm.”

And that’s what did it. What made me the most angry was when I knew she was right and I was the one who needed to calm down. The next day, when I had calmed down, I fixed Grandma’s internet. Pleased with myself, I told her when she came home from the store. She went over and turned it off.

“I thought you really needed to check your email.”

“I saw it on the screen yesterday.”

Grandma is an asshole.

As I did my make up, put my hair up, and pulled on a flashy copper gown I felt like I was going to prom. Except this time my parents weren’t there to take my pictures and I drove all by myself.

When I walked inside I had that horrible feeling in your stomach when you’re all alone at an event and feel like everyone is looking at you. I walked past three teenage guys. One said hello. So I said hi. Then he said, you look very pretty. So I left out the back exit and am currently hiding in my car.

I thought Muslim men were supposed to ignore me, not make compliments. Any other time I might have liked it, but today, feeling like the blatant white Christian minority, I would like nothing better than to be ignored.

In Spanish there are two types of love- the verbs querer and amar. If you tell someone “te quiero” they will usually smile and return the friendly phrase. No big deal. If you tell someone “te amo,” man, that is intense. You are seriously, romantically in love with that person.

How do you know, how does anyone know when they’re really in love? Not just like “I LOVE being with you,” but “I am in LOVE with you and the idea of possibly keeping you in my life forever.” I’m not so sure if I believe that people only fall in love once. There have not been many times when I have felt that awful feeling in my stomach or reached that noticeable stage of depression after someone close has left me. But when that happens, when I care that much that it emotionally and physically hurts, is that love? Is love just some made-up ideal to make that pain seem bearable because you can put this cheerful label on it?

I just want to know. How will I know when I have reached that “AMAR” form of love?

My key to success for getting onto the crowded metro car was to squeeze in front of somebody who really really wanted to get on and let them push me forward. If the door closes and you’re inside, that’s all that matters. The woman in front of me turned to ask if I was alright, squeezed in the corner like that. I said I was alright, so she turned back around. With her poof of curly hair in my mouth, I reconsidered if I was alright. A couple stops up and a few aggressive people pushed their way aboard. Instead of that black ponytail in my face, I now found myself pinned against the separating wall by an extremely attractive guy balancing himself with one arm pressed up against the wall, further cornering me. The awkwardness of our faces being only a lovers’ distance apart was extremely apparent. As I felt his breath on my cheek, I decided I was actually quite alright.

The scramble to get on the metro today appeared to inflict in people the same desperation as the scramble to get on a lifeboat when the titanic was sinking. So I decided to wait while it sinks and grab a coffee in the city.