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.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 16, 2011
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?
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?
Friday, May 13, 2011
'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.
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.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, May 8, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 6, 2011
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!
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!
Monday, May 2, 2011
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?!
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?!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)