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!
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