Your inner dialogue is spilling into my soup

Marisa has a trait that I find in part very amusing but in part extremely worrying. It is simple, but indicates a blight in my eyes fundamentally. We were just talking, as we released dry and practically dry clothing from their castigation hanging from a flimsy drying apparatus, about the english word pugnacious. Admittedly, it is not a word I use very often. The word describes a certain feature of creatures that I do not desire to be around often.

A parallel word exists in Spanish, and therefore I expect they both come from a Latin or Lakife root. Pugnaz. The parallel seemed obvious to me but Marisa insisted that the term does not exist in Spanish. Probablamente es usado de Panchitos. She does not consider Spanish spoken in the Americas to be real Spanish, you see. I fetched her grand and more or less (according to her) unabridged (more or less unabridged is a phrase I should utilize more or less more often) dictionary and quickly discovered that pugnaz does indeed exist.

I used to enjoy a song during my desperate high school years entitled In My Ways. In fact, I am downloading the album at this moment because I have not heard it in years. Marisa is stuck in her ways. Her accumulation of knowledge up to a certain point is now immovable. She claims to be a erudite Spanish speaker. I believe her, for the most part, but any evidence that goes against her ostensibly total command of the language is immediately rejected.

This inner mechanism of hers behaves like a reflex. Like a vomit reflex, to an extent. Her sphere of knowledge has no intention of growing, let alone evolving. I come to understand her fear of travelling outside of her known world (Spain, Italy and parts of France) as an extension of this mechanism.

It’s all a bit disconcerting, eh?