I Don't Buy Clothes That Require Irony-ng.

Just when I thought I was comfortable in my skin here in Paris; that other people’s opinions had no bearing on my sense of worth, I walk by a skinny girl giving me a dirty look.

I was feeling pretty good, got my haircut, which I had put off for some time in an effort to find the greatest deal. Also, communicating something as important as your haircut is best done in your own language, but the ends of my hair had gotten so bad I could not wait 10 days to fix it in London. Ironically, the fellow cutting my hair complimented me on being able to speak French so well after only living here 5 months. “Ironic” because I told him I wanted it long, that it curls up when dry and then he takes off almost everything I had grown in the last four months to display his comprehension of my ability to communicate in a second language. C’est la vie. At least we aren’t dating... we wouldn’t be, his shirt was too dressy to ever date someone like me. He was friendly and probably straight, but boy howdy, I am far from fancy. I am not sure if it’s my skin or the bird shit all over my bag that makes me so undesirable to well groomed men... probably my sandals and tan lines... and leg hair/ body odor.

“Bird shit on your bag, well that sounds like an anecdotal tale!”

You’re right, invested reader, it is. It starts with my employer, a woman I cannot communicate with because of our unaligned boundary issues, bought me a going away bag. Before I go into the gift, let me explain that when I say we have problems communicating, it is not a judgement or even something that’s been discussed (obviously) it is just a difference in approach and neither one of us is better at communicating (I am). I haven’t been terribly happy with my job. I got to a point where I saw I couldn’t stay, I was not happy, but didn’t feel I could express this to the family, that I do love and care about. I have been braised in guilt for the last 30+ days living for a moment in the future that may or may not look like how I have to imagine it to be to get through the day. On the day after my unacknowledged 30th birthday the mother I work for gets me a “going away present”. It is a brown beaded handbag that has the phrase “make everyday happy” into it. I was amused... because I felt like it was really saying “stop being an asshole and stay for a long time because the boys are really going to miss you and I am not sure how to raise them because I can’t discipline them without feeling guilty for not being there more... even though I don’t work”. Anyway, the latter would be more like a suitcase and she doesn’t want me to go. I think her conscious intention was sweeter than that... although a suitcase would have been helpful. It would have been funny if she bought me a bookcase as a going away present. However, I have this bag, less than a week and after avoiding the flaying excrement of winged totem animals for tens of years, I manage to have a bird shit all over the beading of this fucking “gift”. I try washing it off and I am gagging because it’s slimy and is coagulating. I try thinking to myself, it’s just bird poop, what do they eat? Berries, rocks... and then I remember, worms. That was exactly what was making it so difficult to get it off: sticky, partly-digested worm bodies that extrapolated and escaped through the ass of a pigeon (or dove) only to land on the intricate hand beaded message of hope I was wearing across my shoulder.

Le Sigh.

I enjoy irony and I enjoy cheese, so after my hair cut, I decide on my walk home that I will buy a small amount of cheese and eat it on the way home. I was celebrating the day that is almost over. It all seemed appropriate, until I walked by this skinny Parisian woman, looking at me like I was gnawing the ear off a screaming newborn puppy. I noticed her look and actually postured as if to say “what?! you want to get punched?!” and in an instant, our interaction was over by the unwavering pace of our gait and the opposition of our trajectory. I was left looking at the sphere of creamy white cheese usually put out for guests with crackers, bread and good will. It was covered in bite marks and my fingers were clumsily digging into it. My brown, micro-fiber/ sequined purse is covered in bird shit/ decomposed worm parts and I have needed to get my legs waxed for 5 months. So, I don’t really fit in and I am not going to feel bad about eating in public because I am covered in poo poo. That is about that for that tale, God... I hope that read well and you enjoyed it. au revoir.

The Fill Of Paris.

“I feel like I have had my fill of Paris.”

This was a statement made by my friend who had been visiting for two weeks. He lives in Berlin now, but is an American. Going on my sixth month in Paris, I feel the same way, but also that I am in a sort of prison. That might sound like I need to change my outlook, but before we get too into judging me, let’s examine. Every time I go anywhere here, I am faced with clogged streets and aimless gawkers, who my friend refers to as “the walking wounded”. They oscillate between confused anxiety to surprised recognition of landmarks that are everywhere in this city. It seems reasonable to stop their family in the middle of an already small sidewalk to snap a photo, because... hey, they’re on vacation. Most tourists seem uncomfortable and surprised that this experience doesn’t complete them as much as they thought it would. That could be projection, but it reminds me of when I first got here. I was like “wow, I am in Paris,” and I was soon like “oh, this kind of sucks a lot.” Moving to a new place takes about a year to adjust, regardless where you are, but I could tell after a couple months that I didn’t want to be here anymore than the time I had bought my ticket for. Turns out I had bit off more than I could chew with the idea of being here 11 months and changed my ticket to leave at six months. I wish I could leave now.

All of Paris is on vacation, because somehow the entire country has August off for vacation. A lot of store fronts are closed and the only people here seem to be Italian, which is fine, except it reminds me that I never visited Italy and I wanted to. I don’t know, it’s not that bad, but it isn’t that great, either. I am looking at a very privileged issue right now and I know that. So, I make the best of my time here. Mainly, I do this by listening to podcasts and music while I daydream about living with my boyfriend in the States. So much for presence.

I work for a bit of a crazy family here and I feel a lot tension around my last days in Paris. I hope that they don’t stiff me money, and not because they’re evil, but they are as mentally organized as a washing machine operating a full load. Some of the suggestions they have made border on free labor, like “hey, wanna work three days for us and we wont pay you, but you’ll be with us on the coast- it’ll be so much fun”. I have close friends with children I consider nieces, who would never ask something like that of me. The other thing is, I feel really tense telling them “I wouldn’t feel comfortable working and not getting paid.” Like, it’s not okay to point out the obvious in this house of broken mirrors and promises. I am just counting down the days, trusting that everything will be alright. However, it couldn’t come fast enough.

My birthday is coming fast... I will be thirty years old. I will get on a train and travel down to the family’s 9 bedroom beach house, negotiating a fair wage, which wont seem fair to them, because they would never pay their Philippine nanny who’s been with them 5 years anything close to that. The mom actually told me that, so I guess I did learn something here, not really French, but white guilt sunk in pretty damn well. I miss the socially conscious families in America that I worked for, who appreciate me, compensated me and communicated well. It was clean, honest work and they would never pay me more than their other Mexican nanny, however it was more than enough to survive on and live comfortably.

I wont miss seeing constant fashion shoots either. There is a parade of beautiful people in this city- in the world, more than there has been in history. I know I am going to sound fat when I say this, but most of them are boring and vapid. NO, ALL OF THEM. The women with their long legs and smooth skin... lacquered nails, self-control, poise. Well, they’ll never be stand up comedians. The men with their coiffed hair, collared shirts and sense of entitlement... well, they’ll never date this stand up comedian. Not that I am much of one right now anyway... I am like a walk around comedian, with no jokes and no stage. I also have no couture or place to stretch in my closet of a room, but I do have a boyfriend 5,200 miles away who I can’t wait to bicker with in grocery stores over the price of organics and sleep on the floor with after we’ve made up. He makes me laugh and that is a lot more than I can say for Paris. However, it’s been something here... I learned a little French and a lot of white guilt. C’est la vie- oui? oui.

Give Me A "Paris" Of Socks And I Will Walk Home

It’s about that point on my calendar that marks the date for me to submit to publishers. I made the date several months ago when I was writing everyday and inspired by all the differences around me. I don’t have a manuscript and I question whether or not I have talent. Maybe that read morose, but I am smirking, because I assume I do have talent... and I will go forward expressing what I consider “talent” to a still unreceptive world until the day I get the call: you did it, Abbey, everyone in the world loves you! They don’t expect anything from you except to be yourself, like you’ve been doing (maybe, by this time) (who am I?). At this point, I will have accepted myself, most likely, and learned how to love myself all while allowing other people to express themselves.

I think a parents job is to build you an identity that will serve you in this world, because I doubt who we truly are, on a soul level, has any place in the material world in which we live. I am not saying there cannot be shots of light through the colors of dysfunction (does it sound racist when I liken dysfunction to color?), like shadows playing out shapes of truth in an illusory world. I am saying that because if I hear another guru tell me to be vulnerable and try to guide me there, then ask for money for another level of my own self-knowledge... well, I started that sentence off like I had a plan, but really I don’t. I plan on trying not to judge other peoples’ truths. Whether it be that the aforementioned guru IS transparent in his divinity and his presence alone will raise you to knew heights of consciousness or that auditing is an effective form of self-knowledge (Scientology), I wont say what’s right or not. I don’t know anything about what works for other people. People are trying to have some structure to peace, to feel good and it is ironic that we talk about shedding layers like there is an internal destination to live from, when those layers are the structure we seek externally. In our attempts to tear them down, we’ve manifested them in the form of religion, occults and gurus. We are given moments of insight, where we sit in our true nature and feel peace, it is there, but there is not one way to find it. I don’t think very many people are claiming there is “one way” anymore, but I haven’t been to the South yet, either. So, to not judge another’s truth; to not follow another’s truth. That is my own personal revelation after seeking in the frame work of other people’s houses for a room of my own. Maybe Paris brought me to this point, maybe I would have found it in Yakima Washington, either way I was going to gain weight.

Now, I am in Paris. I thought I would come here and feel connected, like I finally found a place to belong. I would fall in love with a reasonable man and would be adored for me. I would get to a place in my body that felt waif-like and acceptable. I knew it would take effort, but it was worth the work. In reading about culture shock and talking to people who have lived abroad, there is a six-month mark where you are just ready to give up... everything is at it’s worst or whatever. I am there, but not with the same futility. I realize that I am at point of going “where do I want to live?”. It isn’t about not adjusting to a new place, it’s about accepting where I am in life and surrounding myself with opportunity. I do stand up and I like space. I like room on my side walk because I walk with purpose and I like plenty of days in a week to try new material/ re-work old material. This is not going to change. I am in love with a friend and old boyfriend who has asked me to live with him and even though we’ll be sleeping on the floor and I will be distracted by his life style choices, there is no one else on this Earth that I know to be better for me at this time. I could be alone with myself, but I have been doing that for so long, I think it might be a fun experience. Although, it could wind up being it’s own form of Paris... I will still learn something. So, I am returning to America to live in Portland, Oregon for awhile. I never thought I would be saying this and I don’t say it with contrition, I say it with hope and acceptance. I will have some time with people that I love and care about and I will always be free to follow my heart. I will miss the price of cherries in Paris and trusting the meat I eat anywhere. However, when I get back to the states, I will probably stop eating meat, anyway. Paris is beautiful and old, but so am I (I am a thousand years old) and I am going to take my Paris back home. It is going to cost me in changing my flight, but can you put a price on it? I am so excited to come back.

Coffee Shop Sofa Sex

There is a shift of focus for the content of my life. I am almost thirty and finally ready to be positive. I mean this in the sense of what I joke and talk about, also what I look at. I recognize what it feels like to say negative things about people or to “vent”. I have always done this justifying that I need to “get it out”, but there is no release, there is only more of the same and an insatiable desire to do more. I also find that if I make fun of people behind their back, I feel that much more affected by the idea that people don’t like me. It’s creating the world you live in and recognizing the world only exists to you the way you see it. Cynics will point out that bad things are happening whether or not you acknowledge them, but how much energy do you have to give to the problem before you start identifying with it? I am focusing on a solution... nice things to do and say. Eventually, I wont feel a need to destroy myself, I think. I am sure, because I am shifting. I also am cutting out celebrity gossip... really toxic stuff there.

In this shift I have to ask what I am laughing at; what am I joking about? For example, I was at a restaurant waiting for somebody when 6 Asians walked in, some old, some young. They were tourists and as tourists, spoke English when they asked for a “table for sex”. I don’t want to think that I misheard that, and as the only native speaker in the area, I was alone with my chuckle- so alone that I didn’t chuckle at all. Now is it mean-spirited to relay that story? Nope, because it’s not like I am pulling my eyes apart and dumbing down my voice. It is good natured linguistic fun. So they got to the table and the older man started pinching the little girls undeveloped nipples... maybe that’s an area I don’t feel like taking, because I might have kids someday.

I might have kids, I might write books, but I am considering taking speed more and more. Coffee seems to get me into more trouble than speed would. I was at my favorite coffee shop and found myself being stared at by the attractive barista. I would look up occasionally and watch him for a period of time that could just be staring off, or it could be flirting. It amounted to nothing immediately, because I left without saying anything, even after he sat right across from me with a book and intermittent glances. I was sitting in front of the window, so it’s possible that there was something more to see in my general area, but it feels better to think that we are soul mates. The only thing with delusion, is the down side, when you find the person you never actually spoken with on Facebook and ask them out for coffee. I did this, but I played it as cool as possible considering the context. I haven’t heard back and am starting to plan my next line of defense.

FLOWERS- CARDS- PHONE CALLS- BLOW JOBS

Anything to get my power back and make visiting that coffee shop less stressful again. Never pee where you sleep, guys... unless you are in love. I am not too bent out of shape, it doesn’t seem to me that this guy gets on Facebook everyday. He might be camping or married. I sent him a friend request the day before I wrote him and hoped he would ask me how he knew me, so I could say “I recognized your pants in a photo” or something equally undefinable in it’s creepiness. He didn’t ask, probably satisfied with his life as it is, so I wrote the blurb about us getting coffee... Now, I am just going to find ways to stop eating, maybe mono. I have never had mono and sometimes I think it’s because God hates me, or that I am shy.

I haven’t posted on my travel blog in sometime, so I am going to post this. However, I hope that my ex in Portland doesn’t read it because it will make him sad to read that I am asking guys out. He and I still talk a lot and maybe, you could say, we are still in love. Maybe we are just insanely good friends who don’t sleep with other people because we doubt anyone else will be as pleasant to deal with. Whatever the case, I have been told that I can see someone here and that he would still want to be with me when I get back to the US. I told him the feeling isn’t mutual because I don’t like the idea of sharing that dick. So, now I feel free to explore romantic possibilities with men I am attracted to. Mainly, because I know that if there isn’t a shared sense of humor or connection, I wont kiss them. It’s liberating to be able to walk down streets without wanting to move into every cute building you see. You can look at the space and just because it has a place to sit, doesn’t mean you have to get a rash from a well-worn sofa. Also, my ex should know, if he’s reading this... which I doubt, because he would have stopped after that paragraph about asking the guy out... He should know that I would only fuck somebody if they were really hung. I love you.

Socialsm, It's More Communism Than You Think

Socialism is like the generalization I am going to use to describe French people. I don’t really know anything, so keep that in mind while reading my opinions. Ha, just a joke, I know stuff- Americans are really funny. I am learning stuff. I am living in Paris, learning and pretending to know stuff. I say “I understand,” not because I do, but because I am a firm believer in affirmations. I am not a “The Secret” kind-of-person, but a “positive mindset feels better” kind-of-person. When living in a new country and learning a new culture, it’s hard for me not to see how America is superior, as an American. Funny how all the parts of it I lamented are actually what makes it pretty awesome. Things, that if tempered, could serve everyone quite auspiciously, but now seem to just piss people off by pissing all over the majority (poor people)(eew). Capitalism is one of those things that isn’t really in practice here. It is really a Socialist country, France, and that tends to breed laziness, but more importantly doesn’t promote a true Joie de vie (I said that wrong, but spelled it perfectly). I am an expert on joie de vie because I grew up poor, but still laugh a lot.

Capitalism gives incentive to create something that will not only set you apart, but reward you greatly. Unfortunately, the spirit of ingenuity in American business seems to have turned in on itself and manifested in ways to fuck over people to take what isn’t earned. This is sanctioned by the government to keep them in power. The issue has become the reward for trickery instead of innovation. However, there is more of a freedom to recognize it and speak against it in America, than there is likelihood for protests against Socialism here. That isn’t out of gratitude to a benevolent government, it’s out of indifference, which is the latent undertone to everyone working their mandated jobs, with their standards 6 weeks off and free health care. Quality of life is as relative as what's considered funny by anyone.

At an early age, kids in France are encouraged to not use critical thinking skills. They are given the answers and expected to memorize them, because over half of everyone that works in France, works for the government. Artists are paid by the government and therefor must create something along the lines of everything else, even if they don’t know it (of course they don’t). They learn that being different is not a quality that is impressive. Take Lady Gaga, for example, she could finger bang a goat all day and call it a skirt (only in America).

If you have ever seen “Exit Through The Gift Shop” you would know a bit about street art and a lot about a French “artist” named “Mr. Brainwash” (ou “Monsieur Tête de Propre”). The French man, was trying to do what he saw independent-thinking-creative-types doing, but ended up creating something that fell so incredibly short of inspired, it drove the thousands of people who saw the documentary to despise him. However, he is a product of a socialist upbringing, just as Americans tend to be chubby. Do you hate fat people for operating on a level they have been raised to? Me too- yucky!

So, the thing about not wanting to be different, to the point that you fear it, makes you a little closed off to things like “spontaneity” and “friendliness”. The French (yes, another round of generalizations) can barely stand having their English corrected, where as an American is kind of raised to laugh at themselves, unless they were raised religious (then it’s rare, but still celebrated). I was having a nice exchange with a clerk here (oh, I am in Paris), who wanted to speak some English with me. He seemed friendly and fun, so when I told him that I live in Paris now, and he said “you’re welcome,” I thought that he would see how funny that was. I explained to him that it would just be “welcome” and translated to him what it would be in French. I expected (always a mistake) him to see it as ridiculously funny, because it sounds so patriotically self-important. Instead of chuckling, he immediately emanated a shameful contempt for his error and, through gritted teeth, thanked me for “learning him something.” I didn’t stretch the limits of how hard one could slap a knee, by telling him about grammar, mainly cause I don’t give a fuck if people mess up English. I mess it up on purpose, on a regular basist. However, most French people will go out of their way to point out that you are saying something wrong, even if you are saying it the same way they are (“oui” “no, OUI!”). I am not sure if that makes them hypocrites or absolutely hateful (either way, it doesn't look good, French people). Are they trying to inflict the same amount of shame that they would feel if the tables were turned? If that’s the case, the only reason the French are thinner than Americans, is because they don’t really eat and French Cuisine is designed to fuck everyone up. No wonder they are grumpy- low blood sugar!

I really relish (hot dog joke) making an ass of myself and hope that it is contagious so that I can have some more fun here. I actually like Paris, despite my criticisms, but that is only because I work hard on those “affirmations” I was telling you about. I wish I could affirm a tighter stomach, but there is too much fucking bread here! C’est la vie! “Non, C’est la VIE,” “shut the fuck up, sheep!”

Holy Gay Paree, LGBT Community

It’s Gay Pride in Paris and let me just say that “Gay Paree” is not just an expression- this place is FULL BLOWN HOMO! It was a lot of fun and even though, it seriously slowed down what I was trying to do with my life (you’re reading it), I loved seeing throngs of people gathering to celebrate their lifestyle. Makes me want to have a GIGANTIC tupperware party, because I LOVE making large vats of food, I always have. I didn’t get it from my Mom or Dad, maybe my Dad... the point is, I was born this way, much like gay people. Nobody is telling me I can’t be in the kitchen all day, but you guys- it’s no longer the 50’s and now I am expected to have life experiences. Thanks, feminist movement.

I was eating in my apartment and all the sudden, it was like the club just opened up down the street, except it was really appealing and I wanted to go! I rushed through my salad, would have just stored it, but I don’t have tupperware (fucking feminists, I am pretty sure). I packed up my lap top and walked down my six flights of stairs to the street one block from St. Germain and St. Michel, where the party was AT! There were thousands, maybe over a million people out celebrating diversity and I liked it. I saw some carpenter types standing on a terrace of an apartment right on St. Germain. They must have been renovating it. I hope they weren’t being paid hourly, because those guys were just slack-jawed and unproductive. I got the impression that they couldn’t believe their eyes and were asking how, in all the reality they know, this sort of phenomenon can exist. It was truly amazing, gay as far as the eye can see. I don’t know how effective rainbows are to getting your voice heard or fairy wings are to getting a point across, but this is gay culture... I guess. I always thought it was like same sex/ sex change stuff, but apparently there are way more colors than that. If I dressed up as a sandwich and demanded to be taken seriously, do you think starving nations would even consider respecting my demands for public masturbation? Is it not the same thing? OH REALLY? Oh... okay, maybe you’re right. I may have inhaled some glitter on my way here.

I am not sure where America is at with regards to allowing gays in the military, but one hypothetical benefit to them not allowing gays, and me being a lesbian who works for them, would be; calling in gay to work- just once! However, I would never risk my life defending a country that didn’t honor my right to live my life the way I wanted to (fatigues would pretty posh, though) That being said, if it ever came time to fight for those rights, there is a huge chance that we would win... "we" being gays/ gay supporters. I consider myself a gay advocate, even though I show a general irreverence to many institutions. I say a lot of "bigoty-type" things, but I could see not getting legally married until everyone had the same rights... unless I fell in love with a conservative, then he would call the shots, really. However, I would throw fabulous dinner parties.

Parenting In Paris, Also Hitler And Stuff

I got on the Metro going the wrong way today, so I am in an unfamiliar arrondissement resigned to make the best of it in Paris. I am still waiting for a waiter (more like “wait her”, I am so right!) to come serve me. The leniency they show themselves in helping patrons in this city never ceases to annoy me. I like the idea that I will finish what I am writing and then, my waiter will show up and do his fucking job... [keep in mind, I have been sitting here longer than I've been writing] If I were the president I wouldn’t have to deal with this... why can’t I be different than who I am- like be the President?

I work for a family with three boys, the oldest is five and totally into muscly super heros, another is four and adores princesses. He has princess shoes, purses and jewelry. He always speaks with his hands in such a way that leaves his nails in grand display. His mom brought him home some press on finger nails and he was thrilled- his father- not so much. [my waiter just took my order, let’s see how long it takes him to bring it around]

The dad is concerned that his son is going to get picked on in school for "this" (the horror of a boy in lavender) and so he gets short with his wife and tries to discourage "this" (sparkly butt-holes) from happening. I understand his concerns, but kids will make fun of the cheese in you lunch box and it can destroy you if you don’t have a strong sense of who you are and that it’s okay to be you. If this boy can’t wear press on nails at home, where is he safe to express himself? I don’t think we need to worry for our young friend, the mom has a strong enough voice and knows what’s right, the boy will be fine, but definitely a bottom, when the time comes. [my coffee just arrived] I mean, she’s no Britney Spears, but she does what she can.

There is almost nothing we can do for boys fashion in Paris, they will likely all grow up thinking that a popped collar and embroidered pockets are reasonable things to wear. That, or they will be incredibly dapper. I say this while I am wearing running shoes, leggings and a scarf. My hair is in a pony tail and I feel helpless to confectionery during this time of the month. A lanky Japanese woman sits down with her friend beside me in a very well thought outfit and I shrivel inside because I don’t know myself. If I did, I would be happy and, I am convinced, incredibly fit/ rich.

I gave up on making a long-term life in Paris less than a month ago and I continually day dream about going back to America. I am doing stand up again this week and have likened telling jokes to people with English as a second language to what it would be like if the entire audience were Benjamin Franklin, but in 2011 and he doesn't know it. I may have to prepare more oil lamp/ calligraphy jokes and NEVER mention how France folded under the slightest pressure of Hitler’s thumb, like a over-ripe peach. With that, all the integrity it bore died with millions of others... Hey, I didn’t say that, I channelled it.

I like the idea of being harshly critical of people/ places and rebuking all responsibility by claiming I am just a clairvoyant channelling something else. How special I am to bring this news to tens of people! [just paid the check]

I know there are people that love Paris and I don’t blame them. It’s beautiful and distinct, maybe that brings out a feeling of being that when you're here. However, in comedy I need a home, a place where I can tuck my balls, put on my princess shoes, press on nails and say whatever I want to say and that it is not only accepted, but celebrated. I am moving back home to Denver when I get back, where ball-tucking is as notorios as cross-dressing... that's not really the issue here.

Fab Moretti Approved My Friend Request And I Almost Had A Stroke!

Fab Moretti, the drummer from the Strokes has a Facebook page and approved my friend request! Yes, I am sure it’s him, because he’s got a photo of himself up; Legit much? It’s so funny, though, he only has 284 friends and I have almost 900, maybe I should be a drummer for the Strokes... if ticket sales ever aren’t doing well, because his inability to connect, I mean. It feels really good being so socially superior to a famous person. I am sure that I am because of the friend tally, plus I have been tagged in way more photos. Maybe he hasn’t been tagged because he’s always hidden behind people. I dated a drummer once, didn't like his face, but he used to hand drum on my back after sex and I liked that. Nothing like being a bongo to make you feel substantial.

Fab Moretti dated Drew Barrymore for five years, so that’s follow through. I think that says something about the guy, not sure what, but I am pretty sure it means I am a shoe in if I could just dumb it down a bit. I don’t want to say that. Why did I say that? Drew Barrymore isn’t a dum dum, she’s actually pretty savvy, but she talks with elongated “ums,” which is indicative of stupidness. That doesn’t make her stupid, just like if someone has a large forehead, doesn’t mean they have fetal alcohol syndrome. However, it’s a safe assumption that their parents don’t love them (look at that forehead). I do yoga and have full breasts that I used to flash all over the place, so he might love me for 3-7 years.

Uuuuuuum, this all reminds me of the time I sent John Mayer a friend request on Myspace and quietly believed he would recognize that I was his soul mate from my profile pictures. He approved my request right away, so I was pretty hopeful, although he didn’t read my message- ever. I thought that I should try dumbing it down a little, so he might like me. I rewrote the letter with lots of “likes” and very little punctuation. A year later he started dating Jessica Simpson and I gave up on me and him- I couldn’t dumb it down THAT much. That isn’t fair, I shouldn’t say that about her, she clearly has some proclivity towards canniness... her clothing line is doing really well. Also, she is getting married to an athlete- take that John Mayer. Seriously, though, call me- I have such a stupid voice.

I wanted to write about travel and living abroad everyday, but the reality is after two months in Paris, there is nothing left to say. I don’t think it’s the same city it used be, and if it is, people are really stupid- like Jessica Barrymore stupid for building it up so... I mean, it's pretty, but ah, uuuum, I shouldn’t say mean things like that, like it doesn’t count. I am excited to travel to Spain next month and Greece the month after that. Other than that, I just kind of take it day to day, meeting people and trying to keep an open heart and mind, except when I am walking places. When I walk places I am all tank-like, because I get riddled with meaningless compliments by men who don’t seem to realize that the mere fact that they are flattering me negates the act by the assumptive intention they use. They seem to have it that stopping me might just get them somewhere. If I was truly beautiful, you wouldn’t approach me, now would you greasy fatso?

Speaking of greasy fatsos, I am mad at my ex, who isn’t a greasy fatso, but would really hate that I used that descriptive. He was my best friend on the internet, maybe in the world and all the sudden he just stopped talking to me. I don’t know if it’s because I was like “look, stop acting like a fucking loser” or because I slept with his brother... that’s not true, but it could be if he doesn’t get with it. I will fly to where his family is and seduce his brother while wearing a disguise and using a fake name. Yeah, don’t let me get away, asshole. My ex spent half the time we talked, telling me how he likes that I don’t let him get away with anything and one day I say something about how he’s once again escaping reality by doing mushrooms on a monday morning in his dank apartment... and I’M so fucked up?! I guess I should consider it a blessing, because I am now free to date Fab Moretti with out feeling guilty. I mean, I don't have to worry about how that might make my ex feel or that it might make him drink. I have felt a little helpless with regards to losing my ex as a friend, so I was like “how can I get my power back?” and I thought that I might block him from Facebook, so I don’t have to be reminded he is on the internet, not keeping in touch with me. I wont do that though, for obvious reasons... I want to win the friend spread competition I’m having with Fab Moretti. Uuuuuum, totally.

I Nreed Some Brinds

I live in a chambre de bonne next to Sorbonne University, in Paris. A chambre de bonne is a make shift room, at the top of buildings and it’s where the help used to sleep back when people kept servants. My room is about half the size of the smallest image I have seen on the internet. There is a dorm room fridge, a sink and a toilet. My toilet is electronic, so when I flush, it stalls for about 7 seconds before loudly announcing it’s function to anyone within earshot, which is everyone because my walls are as thin as the servants who lived here used to be. As if a frightening noise weren’t enough, it’s process is different from a traditional toilet that flushes into a sewer. I am not entirely sure about the exact logistics, but when you flush, it grinds whatever you did into everything else that’s ever been done. It doesn’t matter if you pee, poop or vomit, you will smell a lifetime's evidence of all these things. It’s like a little movie I would call “Shaw-Stank” Redemption, without the ass rape (although, the movie's not over yet). It’s basically a movie that goes on for 11 months and is set in the sewer Tim Robbin's character had to crawl out of, in the original movie, to know freedom (myself).

My toilet is right under my window, which is helpful to flush out the flush smell, depending on the temperature outside. My window faces into a bunch of other windows, of wealthier homes, which I have only recently discovered, has made me quite a spectacle to some old man’s grandsons. I got a formally written complaint asking me to get some curtains. I thought I was being discreet, but assumptions really do make an ass out of... and visible to obtrusive teenage boys. I avoided hanging blinds because my window is slanted with the roof, that tops my tiny little space. A hung curtain cuts off half of my room, unless I pin it and then the air flow is obstructed making bathroom time noxious, but hey, I’m in Paris and in my own, imaginary movie!

Like I said, the walls are thin (or athletic by today’s standards) and my other neighbors, who share my walls/ are poor, are also Asian- Vietnamese- I think... I’ve never been good with that sort of thing, but wanted to convey that I know a specific country over there. My neighbor is up late and when his girlfriend comes over at the end of her restaurant shift (I assume at a Chinese place),they catch up on their day- Of course- they haven’t seen each other all day! It is ridiculously loud and bounces out their open window, and off of the glass of the horny French kids and every other spectator’s window who can’t smell my toilet, but know it’s there. I wonder why their talking hasn’t gotten a complaint and my sloppily discreet wardrobe changes have. I thought about what complaining about them would sound like and I'm pretty sure it would sound racist. The thing about their native tongue, is that it’s a tonal language, so me making a noise complaint is like a hate crime. I hate that I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and they want to communicate. However, if I did voice a complaint, it would be a lot like being in America and complaining about my Mexican neighbors not speaking English to their 7 kids. “It’s really awful because I hear them and then I think it’s early May (Cinco de Mayo).” So I have ear plugs and one of those plants that dances when it hears noise, super hypnotic.

Poor Asians, so easy to pick on linguistically. My French friend and I were at a grocery store here and it was after the cut off time the store would sell alcohol. We got to the counter after some disgruntled party people, frustrated they couldn’t get some more beer into their expanding guts. I decided it would be fun to fuck with an already disgruntled clerk. We put our stuff on the counter and I leaned on the counter with the kind of swagger a handsome oil tycoon has in the movies when he approaches a cheap blonde at a bar. In French I say to the clerk “good evening, this [signaling the food] and [pausing for affect] one bottle of Smirnoff.” He humorlessly explains that they aren’t selling alcohol at this time, to which I throw my hands up in mock defensiveness, then respond in French “okay, okay [pausing again, for the same reasons] TWO bottles of Smirnoff.” He hears me and thinks that I am just a stupid person who can’t understand what he’s saying, but I clearly need booze, so he let’s me in on a little racist secret. In a French/ English combo he explains that there is a shop on the corner that sells alcohol late, then he clarifies (in French) “a Chinese man," as he says this, he takes his fingers and pulls his eyes apart. I know that he was just frustrated with my inability to understand, so instinctively did what he could to survive the communication jungle we were now hacking through. To let him know I clearly understood, I said “CHINESE!” and put my hands together over my head, making a triangle of my arms, mimicking a Chinese rice hat and started saying “ah ah ah ah thank you very much,” in the most offensively racist Chinese accent I could muster. My friend and I had a good laugh and were off with our food. We weren’t going to buy alcohol anyway, which is fine, because I wasn’t home and that’s the only place I would NEED to drink anyway.

New Coffee Shop, New Ways To Alienate Myself

I have found a new coffee shop. I have been here before, but now I am really here. It’s the only place in Paris to get a decent latte and that makes me happy to return. Also, there are a lot of attractive, english baristas. I am about 4 lattes away from meeting my soul mate and his name is going to be easy to pronounce (on my list).

After being stalked by some old French guy at my regular cafe, I decided it was time to switch it up. So, I didn’t write very much last week- what a shift! It wasn’t just that guy, the service started getting real slow with me, taking me for granted. I yelled that they were acting just like my LAST boyfriend. So, here I am, a new cafe that takes an hour to walk to, but has a patronage I wouldn’t mind stalking me and... good coffee/ comfy chairs. I met a young man today, from America. The barista mixed up our lattes and accidentally gave me his soy latte, but that started dialogue because I recognized him from yesterday, when another latte mishap occurred. It seemed he forgot all about it, but I didn’t and I reminded him of every detail, making me look like a very lonely woman. I don’t think he was mad at the service, but he is a young 23, so he probably doesn’t know when to get pissed off, like I do. Anyway, a new Facebook friend later, I am writing about knowing how to talk too much to strangers. The biggest part of growing up, is learning how to talk to strangers. I have to remind that little girl inside of me that it’s safe now, so lift up your shirt when you eat too much sugar- we’re in this together.

Before I could write a pivotal story, like the one I am writing now, I had to write a French comedian and apologize. I was referred to him by an American comedian, so I sent a friend request with a brief introduction. His profile picture was a thumbnail of a poster with him on the front, wearing a jester hat and a confident posture “yeah, I am comfy in this hat and maybe even a little tough, come see my show”. Comedians often times use show posters as profile pics, in America it’s like saying “I’m not here for validation- I’m an artist”. The French comedian wrote back with a sentence asking how I was. I was happy to hear back because I am eager to get on stage and thought he might be able to direct me to some open mics or something. I asked him about stage time here, assuming that there has to be something, but I don’t even know if they call it “stage time”, they might call it “a shower” or “muffin tray”. The next day (that’s today for all you history buffs), I am taking the metro to my new favorite coffee shop to cut out the hour long walk and hope that the new found 45 minutes will prove useful to the creative process. That’s when I see a large billboard in the metro station with this guy’s profile picture on it. So, the one connection I had, I may have completely alienated by asking about open mics. I should have asked him if he knew any solid street corners I could pan-handle at, I mean, we’re both artists, right?

At least I am going to a party tonight. The Facebook invite said 193 people are attending and 136 people are maybe attending. I am definitely in for a meaningful time. However 311 are not attending and the event is waiting for a reply from 2,046 people, so it’s possible that the music will be stupid and only lonely people will be there. What if I am spotted at the lamest party of the season, will people recognize me and refuse to be my friend in the future. It could be one of those parties where everybody looks at one another like the other is stupid for being there. What if that comedian is there and recognizes me and doesn’t like what I am wearing, but he’s wearing that fucking hat. I hope I pack a cool enough lunch and meet my soul mate or a chair. I love sitting down sometimes, especially with a good lunch.

This Is Something Relevant

Part of being a new ex pat from America, is an unhealthy attachment to the internet and peanut butter. The internet thing has you looking at old friend’s photos to see what they’re doing and who they know now that you are gone. Part of me wonders if I am comparing the appearance of my life to theirs, but am almost positive that I am just avoiding doing what I need to do by hanging out on Facebook. There is always something comforting in the creepiness of stalking strangers, but even better than that, is the idea of a world where you can comment on strangers photos without virtually knowing them.

“Be careful!”, “: P” or “That better be juice!” has an air of invested concern that might be reassuring coming from a complete outsider... or it could be gross, depending on my profile pic. I remember, back when I was on Myspace, forever ago, I thought creating a page where I was Jesus Christ would be brilliant. I was sure no one had ever thought of it and I was confident I was an ironic genius. However, as you can imagine, thousands of mentally retarded and just mildly dumb, but hopeful people already had the same idea. The difference between them and I, was they were just creatively crippled enough to follow through with it. I was a proud dum dum, so I pretended I never thought of it and instead became a rapper. I would be the first white, female mc to hit the big time... I didn’t know a lot about hip hop, or even appreciate it very much, but I did like words and music videos. Don’t worry guys, I also seriously checked into Scientology... also... did I say also? Do you know what “also” means? Maybe you should stop here, look it up and write three sentences using it, so you know it- then write down everything bad you’ve ever done. That will be $300, why are you looking at me like that- are you on medication?

Back to commenting on strangers photos, that would be great, especially if they were teenagers or something. I think there are a few members of my family I could do that to and have the same desired “awkward affect.” It was good to get this off my chest and maybe not even slightly amusing- mission accomplished.

Paris is still breathing and I miss America in the strange smell of a new home. I have made some friends here and have routines that help me feel grounded instead of isolated or helpless. There is a comfort in redundancy, unless it results in you getting stalked and raped because they know exactly what you’re going to do next and have known for many sweaty nights. I don’t think that French men technically rape, because they kiss you a bunch... you’re welcome. I sit outside at the same cafe almost everyday to write these inspired little peeks into a still safe-guarded vulnerability. My inauthentic ramblings and inane musings are made possible by perseverance and caffeine. Today, I was writing, when a man came to peak his grey topped head over the glass divider to interrupt my “work”. He began talking to me, asking me if I was American, before I even verbally responded. “I thought you were American...” I take off my glasses, because I am not a complete asshole, so I reject with eye contact and he then says “ah yes, your eyes, that’s what I wanted to see! Everyday I see you here, behind your computer and your sunglasses and I think ‘I need to see those eyes!’” I think to myself “you need to see a shrink,” but I don’t say this, because I know that it was meant as a compliment and he’s got that handsome “ old boat captain/ skipper” thing going, so it wasn’t terribly insulting. I am just not an American who came to Paris to be treated in some generic way that guys here must be used to hooking American women with... desperate women wanting to be touched. I am desperate for some touch, but also a stickler for originality. The last boy I loved kissed me for the first time as I was about to go poo poo in the port-o-potty under a bridge- I miss his kisses. He wants to have babies with me someday, but he also likes me better when I am a bit fatter because that means I am having lazy time- his favorite. Maybe babies can wait until I change him.

So, I am on Facebook and at the cafe everyday. I talk to my ex in some way several times a week, but I am free to sudo-date here, just don’t tell him. I explore options knowing full well, that everything wont go past platonic because I cannot date somebody who doesn’t respect me for my mind and sense of humor. As it stands my jokes are lost on most and I am not interested in men who approach me on the street with some slick-talking solicitation that exceeds trite. I may be a prude, but I know what I like and there is nothing wrong with having time to write a book or pluck all the hair from my pubic region instead of getting pounded several times a day/week by a man who loves you.

Twilight And Political Rapists

I am working on getting rid of a cold that I have had longer than I usually keep a cold. I have been sleeping a fair amount and haven’t been indulging in excessive sugar. However, I can’t seem to give up coffee for a day. I have decided that if my cold doesn’t show signs of improvement by tomorrow, I will just drink tea for the amount of time I need to get back to pristine health.

By giving up coffee I am missing out on opportunities in conversation, like the one I just had. I regularly patron the cafe a block away from my apartment called Latin St Germain. It is at the skirts of the Latin Quarter on Boulevard Saint Germain. A no nonsense name like that and it’s convenient distance from me is what has me coming here almost everyday. I am such a regular that I am on a first name basis with the comparatively conservative waitstaff. Comparatively, of course, to America, where being a regular in a cafe is more likely to get you an STD, than first-name recognition. Fareed, one of my two regular waiters here, feels so comfortable with me, he asked me where I’m from today, but in French of course, I responded in perfect French: “WHAT?!”
When I figured out what his question was, I smiled and said “Etats-Unis,” which is French for “United States”. This led into the subject of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is a politician favored to be the next president of France, but currently being held with out bail, in New York for the attempted rape of a housekeeper. My waiter began talking with me about it (it was obviously on his mind) and quickly stopped when I said “yes, I know it’s a large spectacle!” but in broken French. He must have known the futility of my simple mind, or he had a job to do and discussing rape with one of the establishment’s regular patrons wasn’t “prudent”. It’s only disappointing, because my limited French vocabulary was sure to lead to some fun hand gestures.

Next to America, France is down right medieval with respect for heads of state. I mean they show more reverence towards their politicians and their privacy. Politicians here can pretty much rape freely with little consequence, other than from their own conscience, which already seems a bit defective with all that rape it manages to allow. I heard a woman, here, upset that we put him in handcuffs, like a “criminal”. I should also reiterate that it was a woman who was upset that we snagged a fleeing dignitary who thought it proper to just have his way with the help- our help. I bet they also think “she was just a housekeeper,” but I don’t know. I may be too American/ too woman/ too “the help” to objectively report on something that offends me so much. However, what if he didn’t flee, do you think that they would have fallen in love, like Maid In Manhattan?

I like the idea for a movie that is like Twilight, but instead of Vampires they are all crazed rapists; Immortal rapists, and over the past century, they have disciplined themselves to show women respect by only raping animals. One day, a new girl comes to the Birmingham High School and sits down, right next to Johan Bullen: reformed-immortal-serial-rapist. Her appeal is the strongest he's ever encountered, making his dick so hard it tears through the desk. He has to flee the school and find an animal- any animal! An unlucky mutt lay dying along the road after being hit by a car. The dog is taking in it’s last breaths, thinking about the little girl he loved and is leaving behind when Johan runs up on it’s lifeless body. As Johan tries to expel the urge to rape that beautifully defiant, teenager he left in class, he fucks the remaining existence out of the dog. “Damn,” he says to himself, knowing there wasn’t enough fight to satiate his thirst. He ejaculates anyway and begins a new search with a flaccid, but promising penis. Later, he and the girl fall in love and he is always telling her how difficult it is not to rape the shit out of her and she gets butterflies.
I think this is a relatable script with a large demographic because who can't remember being a tormented 14 year old with an enormous crush on a boy at school? Okay, this is about me now, I had this crush. He even asked me to be his girlfriend once, but I never answered because my fear literally choked the agreement from binding us forever. I was slightly grunge, but mostly melodramatic, lamenting Cobain’s death and piercing myself outside of school. One day my crush and I were walking to school from the bus stop and I asked him if he would do me a favor and kill me. He told me “yes, but I would rape you first.” TIME STOOD STILL and I was in love with him for 2 years after that, until a “friend” of mine started sleeping with him when I went into residential treatment for "behavioral difficulty". She told me he had blackheads behind his ears, which completely expunged my affection for him. Still, I look back on the potential rape that would have changed my life and I wonder how hard an emaciated 14 year old could have fought the boy of her fancy... not too hard. Still, it was the sweetest thing a boy ever said to me until my last boyfriend looked at my stomach after sex and said “you actually have some abs under there.” My heart knows what it wants.

As I nurse myself back to health, thinking on my past, America’s past and France’s present, I contemplate a screen-play, about beastiality, that might finally restore respect for the film industry and put America and France back to the same amiability as the good ol’ slave days.

Romance And God

Just another Manic Lundi... When I say “manic”, I mean I have a cold and an aversion to life, but must push on.

Yesterday I went and saw a movie here in France, my first cinema in Paris, it was very exciting. It was Thor and it made me think that films have just begun using irony as an excuse to not actually write. I enjoyed the movie, I mean I laughed, but mostly it sucked... was really bad. There, that is the best job I could do at a critique because I am busy, too busy to criticize movies from Hollywood. What if I spent all the energy I had looking at what other people did “creatively” and pulled it apart, what would I come up with besides something defensive and uninspired? Maybe a career, but that’s not what I am talking about. I could die any minute and I would opt for it at any time because my most cherished belief is dying anyway.

Romance. People come to Paris to find love, but I came to forget it, it seems. Or find it in a more reliable source, myself. We are born alone and we die alone, unless you believe in God and then you can say “I was never alone.” However, God isn’t going to put a dick in you and tell you your skin is soft. You can’t ask God where he’s been and who’s this girl writing on his Facebook wall. So, God may as well not exist, right? Look, it doesn’t matter what I think or you think. If there is a God, our opinion has no bearing on it’s existence beyond our own lives. I doubt God is like Tinker Bell, and needs your applause to function. Just like I doubt that God would retaliate at the end of this life for your approval or disapproval. I imagine God would be terribly confident, being all knowing and such. Probably wouldn’t hold any patriotic favor or have a favorite celebrity. Most of all, God wouldn’t have a soul mate. God wouldn’t search the world for that one person who can complete God. God would just get a dog, because of all the fun they would have spelling their titles on paper “DOGGOD” (they laugh together).

I think God get’s talked about quite enough in one day without monopolizing a page in my book. Let’s talk about me and what I am soberly realizing. There is no one for me, but me. Le sigh. I don’t even want a dog. So, here I am, in the most beautiful and romantic country, thinking about how I better learn to date myself because the other option is mostly bullshit. I am not saying this bitterly, but just soberly (and a little bitterly).

The only thing enviable about people in relationships, is they still have hope that it’s a means to an end. Everything ends, sometimes quickly, other times in death. I am not saying I don’t think I wont fall in love again, I am saying that it doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. There is no destination to it, unless it opens you to your own truth. Sometimes the best way to open to your own truth is to be alone, with some calm peace of mind that has nothing to do with wondering what he’s thinking right now. I wish that I wanted this more than foreplay, but I see where I am heading and don’t know if it’s bleak or liberating.

I am going to need some time to let this dog die before I burn it and spread the ashes all over the fertile ground that will nourish me when I am burying myself in isolation. I wish that this realization could be paired with casual sex, vacations and couple photos. Why am I here? Who am I?

'Pollack'tics

I had a million great ideas today, two solid ones and I thought “I have to go write about that.” I didn’t write it down because they seemed more like status updates than full length blogs, but now there is nothing. I did think that wearing a lace body suit instead of panties is going to make peeing awfully obnoxious, luckily lace will dry. I also thought that if you were trying to get out of meeting up with friends at the last minute, you could say you peed all over your clothes accidently. Another awkward situation would be to ask on a third date “did I ever tell you about the time I pooped in the shower, last year?”

IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!

I have a very pretty friend, who is a boy and French, but NOT my boyfriend. He reads my blogs and asks me questions about what things mean. He also asked me who John Mayer was after watching one of my videos on the internet. At this point, he posted something from Youtube, on his wall and called it “very funny”. It had three guys, speaking French, at urinals... I didn’t catch what they were saying, but I did see that the joke was they were helping one another pee. I told him not to read my blogs anymore. Mainly because he is so pretty and I talk about pooping in the shower, but also because I talk about pooping in the shower. I was thinking about that while I was in the shower.

So, I had all these ideas and then I sneezed, now I am homeless. I gave a homeless fellow in Paris some money for an Evian at the register of a grocery store. He was confused about the price and of the difference he was short, but though confused, he was speaking French. After I helped him, he asked me where I was from and you know what... he’d been there, he’d been everywhere! He was an American, well-traveled, filthy, old and broke. I was with my French friend at the time and he said “that’s what happens, the Americans come here, spend all their money and end up homeless.” He also pointed to some white paint splattered on the cement and told me it was a “Pollack”. I think that there is a chance he might have been “pulling my leg”, but I didn’t ask, because it would take too long to explain what this expression means. Also, I have a lap top, there is no way I am going to be “homeless”, where would I plug in my electronics?!

I wasn’t far from homeless with that bit about pooping in the shower, though, was I? Pretty vagrant activity right there. I should do it again, call my gorgeous French friend over and tell him “look, it’s a ‘Pollack’! If it were a ‘Sydney Pollack’, it would be scat porn... isn’t that funny?” He would reply with “What is scat porn?” and we will never kiss or get married because of this blog.

Paris, The Land Of Love, If You Like Cake.

DISCLAIMER: I am in a little bit of a "mood" and the following post isn't a reflection of what I know as truth, but a make believe land where I can just say what I want and there are no consequences, i.e., the Internet. Enjoy!

I have decided to sit here, at a cafe in Paris and write something so spectacular you will ask yourself “how old is she?” You will ask this because the level at which I am about to astound you is beyond mere age, it is ageless... and priceless, so don’t even worry about paying me. I should be paying you, really. I have been told that writing is a good therapy for me and you reading this right now makes you a bit of a therapist. Look at you, helping others, how does that feel? Oh yeah, that sounds nice. Soak it up and spread it around, buddy- I've got work to do.

Back to the theme: Paris. I live in Paris, blah blah blah. I might not sometime, then what, where will I live and will art even exist? Will love live without Paris? What is the big deal about romance here, anyway? From what I’ve heard in stereo-types and even experienced first hand, romance is elegant men with hidden girlfriends, but they give you the eyes like you might be somebody... some women get the tongue or the dick, but I am a bit more selective/ skeptical. I feel like I might be hot shit in Germany or Bangladesh, but here I am just a fat mouth. How heavy my face seems to be, with this large, jabbering jaw. My employer gave me “birth control gum” as a gag gift last night. Keep in mind I watch her three French boys, so this gum is pretty redundant after being kicked in the face twice in five minutes by tiny feet. Also, if my mouth was busy chewing I wouldn’t have time to form poorly constructed sentences that act as a repellent to any respectable member of the opposite sex. The only men who want to be with a woman who doesn’t speak their language well, are the ones who don’t want to respect them and can also talk fast to other women on the phone in front of my stupid face. I am pretty sure it’s science.

There is a large part of me that wants cake right now, but I think that’s the large part that has been shrunken down after I quit eating a baguette a day a couple weeks ago. Even when thin, I am not elegant. I am sturdy and slightly goofy looking. I can take a nice picture, from the neck up, but I look better naked than anything else. However, no one sees me naked unless there is an established respect and loyalty and no one here will respect me if I am a relatively large, loose-talking nanny.

This, of course, is ridiculous, but I have to keep my hands busy doing something so that I don’t eat cake- or may ear. I have never been able to actually eat my ear, but the effort to do so usually gets me kicked out of the cafe. I always come back in a disguise (new hat) and they are none the wiser. I thought they might liken my attempts at ear eating to an ambitious Van Gogh. He really pussed out with that whole “knife” thing.

I ordered the cake and the waiter said “okay,” but like I was making a mistake. He knows me; he has seen all my disguises and knows that this cake is feeding a void that can’t be filled with chocolate. He might be right, but this is the kind of “mistake” I can afford to make, it’s a lot better than some French strain of herpes. Bon Appetite!

Picnics, Is NOTHING Safe from Urine Here?!

Holy Paris, Picnic Man- no wonder there are only certain patches of grass people can sit on here... no one would rent apartments in the springtime, otherwise. Living in Paris for one month now, people who are not native speakers are very impressed with my ability to comprehend and speak French, whereas French people are continuously correcting me and disgusted by my proclivity to speak in my native tongue when given the choice. None of this matters at a picnic, because we all sound a little distorted with a mouth full of bread. I have been invited to more picnics than the number of weeks I have lived here, which is really only five. However, I am coming from a place where picnics are activities only dysfunctional couples participate in to keep the guise of a loving union in tact, so actually enjoying an awkward meeting of new people collectively eating off the ground surprises me. It doesn’t surprise me as much as the aforementioned collective’s willingness to urinate in front of small children, even if the parents are there. “Just go in the bushes down there,” was the advice nonchalantly given when I asked about the nearby toilet situation. I had to clarify several times because he was talking about the bushes within, not only view, but also earshot of a crowded playground. Where I come from, you could be considered a pedophile for having a full bladder and lack of etiquette in a situation like this. You could even be sentenced up to 4 days in prison, 2 weeks if you make a kid help you, then slapped him/ her. Makes sense, why one might- why are kids the only ones who get help wiping their own asses after a solid poo? What if at my job interviews to be a nanny, I said my ambitions were to get to a place in life where I could afford to hire a small child to wipe my ass for me, for a change [takes a swig off of flask and exhales cigar smoke though nose]. What if, indeed... like candy and attention is an expense that even most underpaid janitors can’t splurge on for a luxurious little foster child.

Money is a weird mark of success, especially at a picnic. I like the idea that I could go to a picnic with the aim of impressing strangers by bringing Euros instead of refreshments. Throwing down a twenty spot, I'll say with an air of importance “my assistant didn’t stop at the store for this picnic, I clearly don’t have time to shop for these things, but I have about an hour now, so here is for my share... and a little of yours. Sorry, I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty.” I look around and nibble on some things with a disinterested investment in the ensuing conversation, but when the talking points out mustard on my chin, I immediately reach for the twenty I dropped and use it to wipe off my face. I quickly realize what I’ve done, so I apologize, explaining that “these are like paper towels in my house.” The facade would be fun, but couldn’t hold water, mainly because I wear way too much cotton to show that much pretension with any conviction in this city.

I met some great people at the picnic and I am glad I went. There was a fellow who insisted I look at 87 of his science fiction drawings, which was “fun” and I think meant to “impress”, but the best part of the interchange was when I sat down after peeing and he asked me in broken english “do you like rock and roll?” I laughed a hearty three “ha’s” before quickly asking him if he liked “Chuck Norris”, this got quite a positive response from my soon to be new friends. I asked him why he would ask me that and he explained because of my boots, tattoos and piercings, I told him if I were rock and roll, I would have pissed on those kids.

Cat Piss And Other Drinks

I got a late start on writing today, but told myself that despite my resistance to do what I needed to do to create a sense of accomplishment, I would write... something. I would also run and I did, but I cried a little afterward, not sure why, but managed to pass it off as allergies in case any observer caught it and didn’t care anyway. What if some nice French lady came up and asked me “what’s wrong?” and I couldn’t understand, so I just start blubbering through every French greeting I know in replace of answering her question. What if, indeed, she would simply stop caring because I sound so stupid when I talk.

I met two Americans yesterday and I think we’ll be friends, although I am pretty sure the only reason they live here is for an excuse to drink openly in the morning with out public ridicule. They were very enthusiastic that I would also take to drinking a lot, also... did I already say “also”? I felt like telling them if my ex couldn’t make me an alcoholic, Paris definitely wont. However, I am drinking whiskey while the sun is still out and waiting to meet friends for absinthe. I am drinking alone because I need to write in public, but it’s too late for coffee. The server asked me if I was going to be having my usual, but I screamed “NO”. What a maniac- it’s 6:30pm, why would I be drinking coffee?! To stay up and tend to my meth lab? Lady this is Paris, give me a whisky because I miss America. I am drinking Johnnie Walker Red, maybe 2 ounces and at 8 euros a serving, I’m thinking that maybe I can get someone to buy it for me... just make eyes that suggest a blow job to this Frenchman who has been watching me since I came out of my Mother. Fucking perv, her dilated vagina being the only thing standing between him and date rape. That is figurative, of course, I always wear an imaginary mom’s vagina force field around me when I am still in love with my ex, the alcoholic I shouldn’t have romantic feelings towards. It does a really good job deflecting men’s advances, but a terrible job turning down alcohol.

I don’t really have unbearable romantic feelings towards my ex, I just like acting like an emotional cripple when I drink because I think it keeps me from falling into a relationship while my inhibitions are down. “How do you say ‘defense mechanism’ in French, Pierre? Here, tell my e-mail, I gotta go!” I like that I am painting myself as this elusive woman, when I am really just terrified and lonely (and actually painting pretty neurotic photos, besides). If I weren’t so transitory I would have 6 cats by now. They would be my babies because the ammonia in cat piss actually causes birth defects in real babies, and my substitute children can't go outside because a car or raccoon could kill them! I would have at least three litter boxes in my small apartment, so I should just stick with KITTIES, just so I don’t have RETARDS (take a lesson- poor people)! I will only get female cats and I will tell them that they are just like my mother when they ask for foot rubs.

Tonight, I am supposed to go to an absinthe bar, which I have never done... at least I don’t remember doing this, there are a lot of things I did that I don’t remember when I used exstacy with strippers in my early twenties. Today, I am a grown woman, although 20 year old me assumed I would be famous, married and perfect by now, but I stopped listening to 20 year old me any day now. Hopefully absinthe helps drown her out, but if eating doesn’t do it, I doubt casual sex will. Wait, what are YOU talking about?

Oh, Paris... right. I live here now and that means I go out with anybody who will talk to me and do whatever anybody is doing so that I can socialize and meet a soul mate- hopefully he has a cat and a large penis, but I’m okay with no pets too.

I did it, guys, I wrote... I focused and wrote this piece, a memoir of absolutely nothing important. I think this is the theme of my little, book project, which will make it insanely easy to finish by January. Just ask my ex, I rarely talk about anything terribly important, but I am great to have sex with. MEEEEOOOOOW!

Osamabama Ding Dong

I woke up and went to work this morning. I was greeted with the news that Osama Bin Laden had been killed. My French employer was very excited, sitting in front of the TV telling me “Osama Bin Laden is dead!” I replied that he “probably died of old age,” which confused my boss, but through the haze he managed to explain to me “no, he was killed. Obama killed him.” Oh, gotcha. I watched the news with him for a few minutes, long enough to hear some old white guy talking to Wolf Blitzen about the future. He proudly recited “We’re going to hear a lot about ‘Obama got Osama’...” I wished, at that moment, someone American and comedically inclined were sitting with me to riff on that televised moment. There was no one in the room I could talk to; to laugh with. That man felt like he was the first person to say something that was, undoubtedly, going to be sweeping the country- a colloquial sensation all the kids will be slang-talking about. So good, in fact, the Bush administration had their opportunity to get Osama themselves, but after Palin was announced as the vice-presidential candidate, they let him go, knowing Obama would win. What were potential lives lost with the possibility of that phonetic gem looming in the distance.

On top of this, I read that it is extra dangerous for Americans living abroad right now. I haven’t been so excited to die since I bought a discounted airline ticket for September 11th. How great a death, to die a martyr to a country I abandoned 49 days ago. I would try to do something heroic before I went, like save something... a person or some plaster on the inside of a building... “nooo!” I would yell, throwing myself in front a stray bullet about to hit the wall. A French officer would gently pick up my dying body “why did you do that?” He would ask and in perfect French, I would answer “the plaster was laid in 1972, it’s older than me and I respect the history.” After that, my life would leave me and France would hold a renewed reverence for the Americans. Individuals would be free to travel with unearned respect for about 9 months before they ruined their reputation by insisting the portions are “muchos peetit” and that the "gare-son" was being “treyz woode”. However, I would die a legend, like Roosevelt coming to the aide of France during WWII, I would also be remarkable.

This couldn’t happen at a better time, because I am ready to get situated to living here. I am joining a gym and signed up for internet. If I die a legend now, someone else will finish my book and I will be posthumously famous, everyone I had loved would only recall me being an amazingly brave person with so much potential. What a waste and it wouldn’t even be my fault. It would be no one’s fault and I would never be judged negatively again. I like the idea that I could be this lazy, while I simultaneously hate the idea because it is the fantasy that keeps me from writing or working on something inspired. At least Obama got Osama- AMIRIGHT rich white guy on Wolf Blitzen?!

The Only Fabrication Should Be The Fashion

It’s been close to lonely here in Paris. I have made a few friends, but nobody I see day in and day out like on Sex and the City. I have decided it is time to take matters into my own hands and put out a personals ad. I tried walking around and meeting people, but for the most part, no one looks me in the eye or tries to take my earbuds out of my head to say “hello”. Rude fucking French. It’s not like I am the Retard from There’s Something About Mary, although I have zipped my own penis into a baseball. Sarah Silverman was in that movie and now she doesn’t talk to me, where’s my galactic empire, Steven Spielberg?! I am free associating right now and the ideas are just pouring out of me... kinda like this morning when I farted and it smelled like diarrhea, because it was! Luckily I was at work, so nobody noticed. I just said “this coffee tastes weird!”

My neighbor farts so loud I can hear it through the walls when I wear ear plugs to bed- it woke me up out of drifting off to sleep last night. I heard him rushing down the hallway, opening the door and closing it, then erupting like he was so glad he was home where nobody could hear him. I yelled “I will kill you for that!” then I set my alarm for every two hours so I could scream “you’re a dead man, farty-pants.” Anyway, he must drink Illy espresso too, because I did the same thing at work this morning. Nobody said anything, maybe because I am a nanny and the 3 month old can’t talk, but the Mom was in the next room. I heard her jump, like I startled her, so I just told her “the baby destroyed itself all over the walls and this coffee tastes weird... I will clean up the baby. You better make a new one because I need this job!” She came running in and just as I suspected, she was so relieved her baby was alive, I demanded a raise. She asked me why I was squatting with my butt in the baby's face and I said "farting, stop coddling him!"

Coffee is exactly what my friends and I will drink every day at the same place, as soon as I find them, but I am sure I will because I am writing the following ad to hang up in bathrooms at expensive restaurants all over Paris.

Bonjour!

Okay, enough of that French crap- where my New Yorkers at?! I need three, attractive women to be friends with me. One blonde, one brunette and an unnaturally bright red-head. You should have a lot of disposable income and treat me like a fashion receptacle for high end shoes and hand bags. You should also buy drinks, meals and airfare. Let’s travel together. I am a writer and I tell jokes! This means that I am Carrie, so don’t even try to be quirky like me... obviously there is only room for one of us at a table. I am at the point of the show where I am broken up from Big after some other break ups, but we are totally friends. The thing is, I don’t think Big and I will ever get married in this version of our show because he likes skinny girls and I like bread. So, you can set me up with Aiden and this time I will marry him, so that after we have three children we can meet in Abu Dhabi and him kissing me will be totally okay, although I will still call Big and tell him- he should have tried harder. Samantha, keep your clothes on, okay?It’s different this time, this is Abu Dhabi and I am not a good enough friend to tolerate everything about you. This is real life, not an HBO series. You should all be available every day to hang out over a snack. You can be French, but make sure your hair color meets the requirements. Also, no speaking French to us, or on the phone in front of us until I am fluent... even then, dumb it down, it’s not all about you and your linguistics. Get over yourself! Call me when you’re ready to be a good friend.


Regards,
Abbey (like “Carrie”, but with “Abbey” instead)

That’s it, I better go because I suspect the requests are going to come rolling in and I may even have to quit my job for a week or so while I interview. I, of course, will have to bill them after they are hired. I stopped a few people at the Quai and asked if they had other friends here, but they ran- five year olds are so bizarre. It’s not like I only play with kids, but they are the only ones short enough to look me in the eye. I’m not looking up for any adult, that’s how you get water squirted in your eye from those fake pocket flowers. If cartoons taught me anything, it was how to survive, but I am not a cartoon and a stream of water that big would simply drown me. Thank you for surviving this piece of writing, which was the locutionary version of a whoopie cushion.

Versailles: Rhymes With "Le Sigh"

Yesterday was a Tuesday and it was also a day I went to Versailles with a friend of mine who was visiting. Versailles was built in the 17th century as a hunting lodge for the King, but was later turned into a small town by his son, who also became King and in his reign, decided France needed a new image... also, it needed a little protection. He built additions on the castle to... look, I’m not a historian. I am sitting at a cafe wishing the sun was not creeping out from behind the clouds because I need every excuse to wear a sweater right now. I have been knuckle deep in carbohydrates and fat since I arrived in Paris a little over a month ago. Now I can’t even masturbate without excusing my bloated belly to a pretend boss in an office job fantasy I will never be professional enough to keep from getting fired from. Why can’t my sexual fantasies be about men, searching for themselves and begrudging my insistent company or children, that’s at least accessible.

I am not a pedophile, but needed to make an inappropriate quip to lead back into my Versailles story. When Marie Antoinette was being tried, after years of imprisonment during the French Revolution, the Revolutionaries had children claim, under oath, that she had molested them. I didn’t know this, but was astonished by the progressive resourcefulness in such a puritan era- they knew how to get the job done. She lost her head shortly after. Marie Antoinette was a teenager when she became Queen and somehow she was supposed to rule someway other than for herself and her immediate desires. I am almost 30 and still have a hard time saying hello to homeless people.

I read that King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette wouldn’t go to Paris because the hordes starving to death under their rule was offensive to their olfactory. Thomas Jefferson lived off Champs-Élysées in the 1780’s, also Beyonce and Jay-Z were just here too. Americans are obviously very different, but I think Marie Antoinette would have really liked Beyonce, probably only in a “make my food” kind of way, but the fashion talks they stood to have if everyone were color blind and tone deft. Armed with the knowledge of historical residence preferences practiced by French royalty, I automatically took the role as teacher’s pet at the beginning of the guided tour my friend visiting (from Canada) bought for us. Our French guide stood with us over a replica model of the palace and asked “does anyone know why the King moved his court away from Paris and chose to live 2 hours away?”. I was standing right behind her, so that when I spoke, I was heard through the microphone around her neck as clearly as a fresh tracheotomy. In almost a detached, but slightly aggressive monotone I matter-of-factly stated “because it stunk.” The guide looked at me, embarrassed. She apologized for what she assumed was an unpleasant trip I was having to her country and continued to give the real reason: strategy. I then said, even louder “I’m from Canada.”

Today, I am just going to work with children and watch Sex and the City. I thought about running, but think my tum-tum will wiggle too much through my shirt and possibly damage my knees.

Cheek Kisses Are Not A Promise Ring

I woke up this morning and made way to my computer, which makes mornings much more rewarding now that I live in Paris. The time difference has it so that when I sleep, the majority of my Facebook friends are awake, avoiding whatever they should be doing in their lives 9 hours behind me. They are on Facebook and communicating to... moi. I wake up with enough notifications accrued to make me feel like I have a purpose, so I make some coffee and hunker in for a full 40 minutes of work.
My friend sent a link of my blog site to her boyfriend (yes, the same blog you’re reading from now) and he wrote quite a review. I will do what movies do and just post the highlights:

"I read several of these. Your pal Abbey is a thoughtful woman with a commanding writing technique... She writes a.... I feel, is the hallmark of her abilities.”

I am very happy that this person sees my writing as so good, that it must be the hallmark of my abilities. However, here is a list of other very important qualities that I consider the hallmark of my existence as well: I have a way with oatmeal, I own a Kindle and a Macbook Pro, I have reached a higher state in meditation, I seem to be aging well, not African well, but not Scottish poor, either.

I am happy to have read such a glowing review of myself from somebody I haven’t met; made me feel a little famous. However, there is part of me (the part that needs to exist to write the following) that thinks that my friend is rubbing in my face what an attentive boyfriend she has. As if to say “you know that sweet-eyed, indolent funny boy you still swoon over? He would never write anything this nice about you.” She might be right, he says some nice stuff, but her guy typed two paragraphs, I haven’t heard my ex speak two consecutive paragraphs in the 2.5 years I’ve known him. I miss talking at him.

My isolation has me talking at a lot of bread here, and with my mouth full, no less (HOW WOODE)! I sometimes feel bad about my expanding midsection, as a result of all the baguettes I consume, and resolve to go walking. I don’t know what is wrong with the men here, but they check me out- and not in a ‘that American is letting her tum tum represent her country’ kinda way, but in a way that tells me “I can eat whatever I want when I get pregnant.” Too bad they are almost always waiters or guys being waited on, while they sit with a thin, attractive woman. She is probably saying things in French like “...so I told him I don’t care how much this fabric cost, couture does me no good unless it fits right- take it in!” I walk by feeling a little more optimistic about my romantic future in other countries or by mail- whatever it comes down to.

It almost came down to a European hello the other day when I was at my French friend’s house and a variegated gender duo dropped by shortly after me. They walked in, the woman in the lead, and thank goodness for that, because if the guy walked right up on me and leaned down to kiss both sides of this stranger’s cheeks, I might have slipped him the tongue thinking he was my soul mate. I was so confused at first, as to why this woman was about to attack me... I thought I must be sitting on her coat that she left on a previous visit. After the greeting I said “I may never get used to that,” to which she gave a smile and began speaking French to my bilingual friend from France. When you ask a French person if they speak English and they say “oui”... they speak less English than you speak French. Who needs fleshy, French friends anyway when Facebook has such gracious couples who appreciate me for who I am: blogging en Englais.

I'm Not A 'Racist', I'm American

Now, I don’t want to come off as bragging, but since I moved to Paris, I have killed at least 43 ants- sometimes three at a time! They are not just in my place, I think they’re everywhere in the Spring, like the urine smell. I can’t exactly figure it out because there is nothing to eat in my apartment, but maybe it has something to do with the baguettes. Those are everywhere too, so it is possible that we’re secreting bread through the pores in our feet. Crazier things have happened- like Obama- no one saw that coming! I’m not a racist because I voted for Obama. However, I have noticed that African Americans from France and Britain talk just as loud as in the US.

I am so glad I got that off my chest, it’s like a weight has been lifted. My honkey American friend said I probably couldn’t write about it, but I was like “cracker- watch me!” he was like “now, don’t be calling me no cracker,” and I was like “whatever, round eye!”

I am watching Sex And The City Season 6 for the 3rd or 4th time, because I’m in Paris and she goes to Paris at the end of the Season. She just started dating a Russian, who’s name I can say, but can’t spell. He doesn’t get a lot of her jokes, but he makes her breakfast and seems to be ready to commit. I accidentally found myself on a date that I thought was a language exchange. He was an enthusiastic French man and I knew we might have a barrier of understanding when he asked me if I like women because I shrugged away from being guided across the street. I told him that I wasn’t a lesbian because I didn’t like the texture. He asked “what is ‘texture’?” I proceeded to inform him that I was only interested in language exchange, not romance and he said “I feel like you are attacking me!” He said it in such a way that made me think that I might have been. I tried to apologize, explaining that my ex had “low self-esteem” and my dad “wasn’t there.” Then I ran off to Brighton, England to do some heavy duty counseling because I realize that there has to be some significant healing before I can even make eye contact with an interested French man. They romance like African Americans: intense(ly). Also, it couldn’t hurt to heal the misconceptions I have held of both my parents, so my relationship with myself and everyone I meet is based in truth and not the illusion of some falseho... hey! Where’s that ant going with my bread?!

Lazy In Paris, Crazy In Love

It’s one of those Spring days in Paris where you just have to get out of the house: Tuesday.

As much as I know that the day is lovely from my run earlier, I feel crippled by laziness in a way that makes me ask “who’s running this program?” I read a few pages of a book, half-heartedly watched an episode of Sex And The City... even though I have seen it at least 4 times. I wonder if I am being influenced negatively by the consumerism in that show... are my own values strong enough to objectively enjoy such garbage?

The sun is shining down pretty nicely and I could walk along the Quay, meeting people and enjoying the sights, but can’t I just nap? Like a cat... they got all these lives, what’s the big deal? I tried meditating, but I think I just fell asleep, not without seriously observing my thoughts. Funny how this cat stuff really played out there, I was just chasing my tail in an attempt to pass through the worm hole, instead pass through my hole... that has worms? MEEEEE-YOW! I am going out side in nothing special, get ready Paris!

I sat at the Luxembourg Gardens reading David Sedaris: Me Talk Pretty One Day. The second half of the book is his account for the time he spent in Parisian movie theaters, mostly avoiding the culture and typical things you must do while living in Paris. I feel a kinship with this writer and simultaneously assume he might hate me if he ever met me. C’est la vie. I heard about the content of this book after I had already moved to Paris, preparing to write about my experiences in fresh light, only to find out someone older and more interesting did that a few years ago. Oh well, gotta do something to keep myself from talking to people.

On my way to the gardens I saw a woman with a sign that read “I’m hungry” (but in French). I was too, and short on cash, but I gave her a little over one euro. I should clarify that I never ever give money to people begging and have even been known to pick a fight with weaker boyfriends who have dared challenged my staunchness by example. “If I wanted to fuck Princess Diana, I’d be a lesbian” I’d explain, along with some well educated assumptions about what disease that money was going to enable. I did this for so long I didn’t even notice the rancor that came over me every time I passed someone with a sign. In my resolution to do more random acts of kindness I was pissed when I saw her there, all hungry and shit, but I gave her all my change, as opposed to just the .30- I gave the euro as well- but not without an internal fight that kept me against the wall opposite her for some time while I thought. She said thank you and I walked away thinking that she could at least buy a baguette and I felt good... I mean really good, like “uh oh, Abbey,” because I was thinking about running into the super market and buying her a sandwich, then giving her my job... she seems qualified enough. I am short on funds, but giving her €1.30 is nothing but a reminder for me to be more mindful in what I spend on myself and enjoy that in which I do.

One of my favorite ways to avoid learning French is to sit around watching the American West Coast clock turn to noon, so I know when my ex is awake and available to “poke” me on Facebook. I recently asked him if he were “poking” anybody else on Facebook, or if I got special favor. He assured me, that it was a special thing between just the two of us... and my friend’s mom, who also “pokes” me. I moved to the most romantic city on Earth and look forward to getting poked in such a way that not only my ex-boyfriend can, but also my best friend’s slightly senile mother. She never hugged my friend when he was growing up, knowing this inside information regarding her aversion to physical contact, I always greet her with a long, tight hug. I don’t have the nerve to kiss her on the cheek, but if she ever visited Europe I definitely would. Until then, “poking” on Facebook should suffice every physical need I might ever have.

Brighton, Border Patrol and the Bodhi Tree

If you love the idea of traveling Europe and seeing London- you’ll love staying home! That’s because the border patrol in the UK are a bunch of U-cunts. I mean it, not just for alliteration. I guess the woman officer must have had an intuition for all the smack up my... luggage- my leg luggage, folks! EEEE ahhh EEEE ahhh (like a donkey braying and a woman enjoying a good shower) [very clever]

Actually, their biggest concern with me, was that I was going to be working. I felt like saying “look, I don’t even LIKE working.” That’s a lie though- I love it. I can’t get enough, which is why I went to Brighton, England for 9 days (although I am going to have to cut my trip short to get back to Paris to start working) to work. I’m not a lawyer here or anything weird like that. I am just doing the old drug mule thing and washing that back with a few stiff hand jobs at reasonable prices: immigrant hand jobs.

PS I am not really a prostitute guys... Not with my authority issues.

I brought more authority issues with me through border patrol than socks, so any attitude I got was upon myself, but I tried to imagine brown nosing an immigration officer, my compliments would probably come out more like this:

ME: Your ears look like you’ve had them pierced for a long time.

HER: Why are you here?

ME: I should ask you the same question [wink].

I almost didn’t make it in to the UK and told her to just send me back to America. I actually said this. Q: Where do I get off?! A: I got off in Brighton and was looking forward to a relaxing couple days by the sea. I was excited to eat fish and chips. I left my wallet on the bus.

I LEFT MY WALLET ON THE BUS! [I’m yelling at you now]

I managed to have £115 shipped to me via Western Union. That has to last me two weeks until a new card can get to me. So, I have to seriously get on the jerk train to Nob Town, where I get paid for my seat, but at discount prices because I didn’t bring the right clothes and body spray/ glitter. I look like a bouncer at a brothel more than a lady of the night.

To illustrate the last week for perspective; I booked the ticket to Brighton because I lost my job in Paris for locking myself out of the employer’s house while they were on vacation. It cost €300 ($432) to get through the antiquity of the home’s steal door. They changed their mind the same day and said I could stay. I told them to not pay me until the door was paid off. This was a fine idea, at the time, because I could manage and felt compelled to be accountable. I couldn’t bear telling them that after locking myself out of their house, I left my wallet on a bus on my way to escape the reality of Paris for 5 days before I returned happily and responsibly to work. No, just leave your kids with me- forget that I will probably forget their limbs in the elevator shaft... what's the big deal? Don't those regenerate until their bones have calcified?

Now, I am in Brighton going through a series of transformative meditations with an experienced guide (what are YOU doing? eating?!). I have realized what a cunt I’ve been and how I have pushed so many people out of my life to keep from having to be anything but self involved and some other things too. I don’t know that the realization has taken hold quite yet- still feel pretty into myself and relatively unhappy. However, I also did a rebirth, which burned- it was the most uncomfortable thing I have ever done. My ego is like top grade smack and burning through that/ detoxing was physically painful... could never have done that on my own. Afterward I floated in a pool of consciousness that I didn’t deserve to swim in. I still don’t. However, I’ve swam in it and not many people get a chance to do that, so I feel humbled and honestly, a little superior to everybody else who can’t seem to get there. Why aren’t I happy yet? What are you eating?!

Lost In Translation, But With More Jokes- Lost.

Bonjour.

You know you’re in Paris when... Hey I just said “urine”! That should about do it for me, this blog could write itself on that gust of wind.

You can walk almost anywhere in Paris during the Spring and see what all the fuss is about. Even the Parisians are excited when the sun comes out, which might be why they take to peeing in what must be drones. It is the worst smelling urine I have ever encountered- the pee smells like the men’s bathroom in a bar that is notorious for bad decisions. It’s like they are trying to ward off stray cats here! Well, I haven’t seen any, so I think we can learn something, AMERICA.

It’s going to take more than putrid streets to keep this kitten in the house. Which is why I went to a language meet up/ picnic today, to practice French and meet people. Basically the group was too big to do language practice and no one wanted to be my friend because they all brought food and I brought postcards.

Like it were my idea to have a picnic at the Eiffel Tower, they should have hosted it at the grocery store if food was so fucking important. Give me back my postcards!

It was 70 degrees and there were representatives from all over on this patch of grass in the Champs De Mars (the park in front of the Eiffel Tower). There were Italians, French, Lebanese, South Africans, Americans and Hungary. Uh oh... did somebody say “hungry” in front of the American stand up comedian?!

I asked a woman where she was from and she said “Hungary” and I said “I was just there, but I got a crepe!” and she said “oh! where were you?” I answered her “South Kensington, London, really- I like your hair.” Can’t wait to take to the stage here, someone invited me to their improv group and I squatted down and yelled “je suis une chaise!” (I am one chair)... I’m so in.

I ended up at a party later that night, but on my way to the party I was walking down Rue Saint Germain listening to my ipod, when someone swooped up on my left side with some important news! He started speaking French with some urgency to me, very quickly and I politely told him I didn’t understand, so in broken English he basically told me I looked amazing, he was only here one night and asked me to go this party with him. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!

Before I left the States for Europe my ex gave me the best going away present you can get before heading to Paris... He sat me down to watch Taken. Taken is a movie starring Liam Neeson, who plays a dad (and former CIA operative) of a hot piece of virgin ass that gets kidnapped and sold into human trafficking. Basically they trick pretty girls into going to parties, then they tie them up, fill them with drugs and sell them to really sweet guys that can’t meet a good girl because they have so much money. Anyway, I have been on my guard- even at the museum!

FELLOW: [brushing past me] “Pardon.”

ME: [crouching down and shitting my own pants] “NO!”

I heard that if you’re ever getting raped, or about to, you should try shitting your own pants. The thing is, there are times where I can’t even shit my own toilet for a couple days, but I don’t have to worry about rape then because my belly sticks out a little. In conclusion, almost being forced into human trafficking/ sex slavery is the sweetest thing that has ever happened to me and it gave me so much confidence at the party I was originally planning to go to. I made like three new Facebook friends and my hymen is still in tact... and when I say “hymen”, I mean like “hi, men... over here... no? okay- maybe after I poo poo.”