Reasons I May or May Not Accidentally Be a Racist (Part One)

1. Miriam.

She is my roommate for the three months I live in Spain, and in that time, she manages to fuck more people than I have ever fucked in my entire life. This really is her only dominant characteristic: she has animal tattoos in disturbingly suggestive places, and for Christmas, she gives me a necklace in the shape of the stripper silhouette that truck drivers like to put on their mud flaps. One time, she tells me a story about a guy she met on the beach behind CatWalk: she wasn't sure if she was homeless, but she wanted to fuck him, and, tragedy of all tragedies, she didn't have a condom. Only she doesn't believe me that English word for "condom" is "condom," so she illustrates the concept with an elaborate hand gesture that looks roughly like she's stabbing herself in the vagina with a 2x4--seriously, that wide and perfectly angular.

For the rest of my life, I will be convinced that all Germans are sluts, and that they are all having the weirdest, most impossible sex with their horrible square Lego-people genitalia,
and none of them close the bedroom door when they do it, and their roommates have to hear them screaming their awkward, hairball consants in every inch of their tiny Spanish apartment, all the time.