The Name Ryan Threw in the Dumpster

André and I had Chinese food first, then dragged ourselves through Kaufbeuren with Meggi, and eventually ended up in cinema hall 9 watching Borat. Hall 8 next door was running some dwarf adventure film with Otto out front signing autographs for a queue—a whole production—so we had to fight past that crowd to reach our nearly empty room, where the curious Kazakh reporter and his producer Azamat were waiting to take us on their tour of America.

The film was genuinely great, though not quite the transcendent comedy I’d built it up to be in my head. When Borat and Azamat started wrestling completely naked across their hotel bed, the entire hall lost it. Except for two older people near the back who either wandered into the wrong screening or had arrived specifically expecting a Kazakhstani documentary. They didn’t laugh once. Didn’t leave either. Honestly, I found that impressive.

Now I’m sick. Winter pulled its cold curtain over everything and my immune system immediately capitulated. Hot milk with honey, tea, lying around. My World of Warcraft: The Burning Crusade beta key finally arrived too—Blizzard had apparently been having email problems—but I’m not going to use it. Going on eBay. I need the money for the Abitur, and the expansion isn’t out for months anyway.

This morning I watched the new episode of The O.C. It was brutal. Her name wasn’t said once. Ryan took everything—every physical reminder of her—and threw it in a dumpster. Just gone. The show without Marissa Cooper isn’t the same show, and nobody even has the decency to say her name. And now Taylor has taken her spot in the opening credits. Taylor. I genuinely cannot.

Julian is having a party tonight. I’m sick. We’ll see.